Sons and Lovers
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Sequel to Pictures at an Exhibition, which is my take on the end of S 3.  This story explores House's troubled relationship with his parents, which plagues him as he tries to find some normalcy in his new relationship with Cuddy. In between seasons 3 an 4
1. Chapter 1

Sons and Lovers

(with apologies to DH Lawrence for the Use of the Title)

House/Cuddy established relationship (since the end of The Jerk); takes place in the summer between seasons 3 and 4, with echoes and spoilers for Daddy's Boy and anything else.

House was shivering; shaking with cold. "Please let me out," he whimpered almost inaudibly. "I promise I'll tell you. Just stop!" But the timer hadn't rung—he knew still had 15 minutes to endure, and complaining would only buy him more time; more pain. Although House could sense the feeling leaving his feet; the stinging only intensified everywhere else: his abdomen, his back; his groin. As the ice melted, more was poured on top of him, until the ice no longer melted only piled higher and higher until he was drowning in it. "Stop!" he yelled. "Please stop!"

"Fine. You'll never be a man. You'll always be a disappointment. A little liar. That's all you'll ever amount to…"House was now thrashing wildly, tears streaming down his face.

"Please. Just stop…."

"House." A whispered voice from somewhere nearby. Familiar. A woman's voice. "House," it repeated gently. "Wake up." Now he felt a hand brush his upper arm, causing him to flinch away.

The hand's touch firmed on his arm and was now shaking him. Who….? Slightly disoriented, House sucked in a breath as his eyes popped open, startled. He glanced to his left, only to see Cuddy, lying next to him, a concerned look on her face. "Cuddy." House let out a breath, sagging back into the pillows of his bed. "I must've been…"

"You're freezing." In his thrashing, House had kicked the away the blankets; and the stiff northeast breeze had chilled him. Cuddy threw the tossed blankets around his shoulder and lay facing him on her side, head propped on her right hand. "I think you were having a nightmare." Cuddy saw that House was still shivering despite the blankets; she edged closer, urging him to roll onto his side, so she could warm him. House touched his forehead to hers, willing himself calm; sucking in deep, even breaths.

"Sorry. I… Sometimes..." He looked away, embarrassed. He fought for words to cover and deflect his distress, and failing. This, he would not be able to cover.

"Wanna talk about it? It might help." House's eyes went wide. Clearly not.

"It's a dream I have sometimes when I'm… It's nothing." His kissed Cuddy, surprising her—it was not something he really never did outside the bounds of their lovemaking--drawing her close; she could still feel his trembling, although it seemed to have mostly subsided. She tucked her head in the crook of his neck as he lay on his left side, his arm draped around her. Slowly she fell back to sleep.

It had been a beautiful evening: clear and cool, typical for early July. "So how long has it been since you've seen fireworks?" House looked at his wristwatch, before casting angelically innocent eyes at Cuddy.

"Too long. One hour, seventeen minutes ready for another…" Cuddy rolled her eyes, slapping him hard on his arm.

"I mean…"

"I know exactly what you mean. I was hoping you'd take the hint." She didn't, waiting him out patiently, until he decided to answer the actual question. "Been awhile," he continued finally with a deep sigh. "I really don't…"

The last time he had watched fireworks had been alone on a hilltop with Stacy. That Fourth of July, one week before the infarction changed everything. He had decided that night to propose. Make an honest woman of her, he had planned on declaring. He'd wanted to have the ring with him when he asked, or he would have asked her that night sitting on the hilltop. But a ring in hand would make less likely that she would say "no." He had it picked out the next day; and it was an absurdly romantic and expensive piece of jewelry: white-gold filigree wrapping around a one-carat perfect stone.

Then everything changed. And nothing was the same ever again. And the absolute last thing House wanted to do was to go see Fourth of July fireworks, with anyone, even Cuddy, childlike eagerness in her eyes and voice. And, in the interest of trying to make whatever it was he had with Cuddy work, they went.

House couldn't help himself as he narrated the show for Cuddy as they sat on a blanket shoulder to shoulder: which chemical combination created what colors; how they were packed into the skyrocket so they would make just that particular pattern in the night sky. Simple chemistry, a bit of physics, and a little Asian magic. Half an hour of smelling sulfur; a bottle of wine consumed.

They got back to House's flat by midnight; celebrated the Fourth with their own, more intimate display of fireworks and fell asleep in House's large antique bed. Until House had awoken, shivering in a cold sweat, yelling.

It hadn't been the first time House had suffered that particular nightmare. It had plagued his sleep periodically since college, peaking about a year earlier, right after the ketamine, when the vivid dreaming that accompanied the drug was at its height. But even now, that particular nightmare visited upon him every couple of months. It was one of an array of terrifying visions that seemed to always keep him away from a good night's sleep. Having it happen now; with Cuddy lying next to him was humiliating at best.

House looked down at her, her hair splayed across his arm and chest, sleeping. No longer sleepy, he gently untwined himself from her, careful to not disturb her. Grabbing the Vicodin bottle and his cane, he made his way to the living room.

House knew that this had been inevitable: Cuddy being there when House took an involuntary trip down memory lane. But what would happen when he woke up one night screaming his father's name to stop? What then? What would he tell her? What explanation was there for having a recurrent nightmare featuring your own father torturing you?

The dreams had not been frequent enough when he was with Stacy for him to have needed to explain. A quick sloughing off of the question by: "I must've eaten something. Mexican food always does that to me." She never really cared enough, or was too sleepy to probe him further the few times it had happened. Cuddy would probe. And prod. And question. But not for awhile, House reasoned. No, right now she was walking on eggshells like he was, trying very hard to not screw this thing up. So she wouldn't ask him uncomfortable questions and he wouldn't have to lie…or worse tell her the truth.

Cuddy knew that House hated his dad. Enough to avoid him at all costs when his parents had come to visit nearly two years past. It was a good hatred. A righteous hatred that had burned deep and scarred even deeper.

House was six when it started. And didn't end until House was bigger—and stronger—than his father.


	2. Chapter 2

Sons and Lovers --Chapter 2

Bright sunlight came streaming in through the living room striping the dark wood of House's piano with sunbeams. House had not been back to bed; his brain refusing to turn off as he considered the implications of a too-close relationship with Lisa Cuddy. And then there were the memories. Still too vivid, but only when he slept; and more frequent since…what was her name? Eve, that was it. Eve. Damn her. Damn her relentless assault on his mind, on his defenses. For the moment, he had wanted to believe that "they" were right; that talking about it was "good," whatever the hell that meant. Ipecac for the soul when you've OD'd on psychological stress.

So he tested it; he said it. For the first time. To anyone. Ever. "At least you got her talking about it. That's huge," Cuddy had insisted. House had doubted the hugeness of it; doubted its healing power; its power to do anything other than making a girl cry. He felt like the worst sort of fraud; the most parasitic of con artists. Getting someone to "talk about it" did nothing good except granting of false sense of absolution on the part of the one who forced the disclosure.

It had been impossible these months for House to rid himself of Eve's face, which popped into his consciousness unannounced and unwelcome. She had lied. One day, one room. It was all she had asked; all he had committed to, yet there she was. Most of the time she was but a vague image, incomplete and hovering along the edges of his sanity, invading his thoughts when he was exhausted, or, like now, on the heels of a quickly fading bad dream. He blamed her, he knew, ludicrously so, for the escalation of memory; recollections that were useless to him, but which he was helpless to forestall.

Then there was his father. Marine Colonel John House. Top Gun, macho pilot John House. Fuck you. House tried to shake off the oppressive presence of his father; refusing adamantly to allow him any further opportunity; any further hold. Maybe it was the lack of sleep; maybe it was because he was beginning to feel again for the first time in years, Cuddy's caresses wearing away the fortifications around his heart… The numbness receding into the biting pain of remembrance; the agony of recollection…

"Did you take money out of your mother's purse? Answer me, you little thief, and don't lie to me." The memory was still vivid: his father's eyes wild with fury; the young Gregory House shaking with fear, and trying to hide it.

"No." Young Gregory's voice wavered. He was a bad liar…then. He was only six, and what did you want from a six year old. But he learned quickly. Self-preservation will do that to you. He had, in fact, taken money from Blythe's purse. It had been impulse that told him to give his own lunch money for the week to the new kid in first grade. The boy that everyone seemed to hate "just because"; whose school clothes were covered with worn patches. Who never seemed to even eat lunch. "My mom said that two meals' all that we could afford on dad's pay. He's only an corporal with an corporal's pay. That's what my mom says." "My dad's a captain. A pilot," bragged House, feeling immediately wrong for having done so. And after a week without eating lunch, Gregory took the money from Blythe's purse. It's like what Pastor Franklin said in Sunday school, reasoned the six year old boy. Charity, isn't it? His parents would understand. It was right; the right thing. But Gregory was wrong. John House considered it far from "right".

"You know what they do to thieves in some places? They cut off their hands!" Young Greg gaped in horror, waiting in terror, expecting his father to carry out that harsh sentence. "But I'm going to let you off easy. Teach you to not steal and then lie about it." Blythe had pleaded with her husband that their son was only six and didn't know better. That throwing him into a tub filled with 50 pounds of ice was too much; that it wasn't necessary. He'd never do it again, she begged. And then Gregory had heard the sewing room door close as Blythe retreated into her own space, deferring to her husband. "Now strip!"

House blinked back the memory, sensing Cuddy's soft footsteps on the wood floor. He rubbed his eyes, trying to remove the last vestiges of its hold upon him. He looked at his watch. Eight o'clock. "And no, I do NOT want to go to any Fourth of July Parade, so don't even ask," House inserted as if picking up the thread of an argument. Covering.

"Oh damn! And I really wanted to see that new float from the Princeton Plainsboro Bank." Cuddy snapped her finger in a fit of pretend pique. House patted the sofa, moving his legs out of the way, inviting her to sit next to him.

His arm around her shoulders held her tighter than usual; his grip radiated edginess. "You OK?" House nodded tightly before getting up a little too suddenly, grabbing his cane and making his way to the kitchen. Slightly confused, Cuddy repeated her question, a little more concern behind it.

"Making coffee. Hey, Cuddy, ever light snakes on the Fourth?"

"Yeah, maybe when I was 10," she laughed sarcastically. "Why?" she called from the living room, suspiciously.

"Got some. My favorite Fourth of July ritual." Of course, Cuddy mused. Brilliant mind, plus 10-year old boy equals Dr. Gregory House. Well, that, with a few other important things thrown into the mix, she considered. "On the other hand…" She had appeared at the entry to the kitchen wearing only his discarded tee-shirt. "Didn't your mother ever teach to not be a PT. Leave an innocent boy with a bad case of blue balls?" House leaned against the counter, his coffee-making halted as Cuddy's eyes raked over his body.

"Who said I was teasing?" She smiled as she glanced down, observing the obvious effect she was having on him. "Blue balls, my ass. When did I ever…?"

"Oh for about…let's see…five years, seven months…"

"Hmmm. I'm a doctor you know. Can't have that, can we?" House sucked in a breath at the seductive mischief in her voice and eyes as she edged closer to his position.

"Yeah…" he sighed. "I'm a doctor too, and that means that two out of two doctors agree…" He couldn't finish the sentence as her hands reached out and pulled at his hips, urging them towards her. And then she moved her hand between them, probing.

"Talk about snakes," she exclaimed with lusty amusement in her voice. House nudged her clumsily toward the butcher block island in the center of the kitchen. He steadied one hip against the island, he lifted her so she was sitting balanced on its edge facing him. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her, securing his balance so his right leg would not have to take much of his weight. House ran his mouth along her body, starting at her cheekbones, planting delicate, but increasingly passionate kisses in a zigzag line: her jawline, her neck, collarbone, shoulders, breasts: first one then the other, blanketing Cuddy in frenzy of sensation; igniting her nerve ending wherever he touched and in her groin, until sensation meshed into sensation, meeting in the middle. "House…" she gasped. "Now. I need…" She didn't need to say another word; couldn't as he moved quickly to cover her mouth, nearly losing his balance as he pulled at the waist of his pajama bottoms, freeing himself.

"Cuddy. My condoms are…" He broke from her mouth, missing it instantly.

"Screw the condom…"

"I'd rather screw…"

"House…It doesn't matter. I don't care. I'm not going to get pregnant. Neither of us has STDs. Just…" And suddenly he was inside her, and absolutely nothing else mattered. Cuddy sensed in him a desperation that she'd not perceived in him in the six weeks they had been together. It both unnerved and excited her.


	3. Chapter 3

Sons and Lovers—Chapter 3

"Have you even started interviewing candidates?" House shook his head swiping a chip from Wilson's open bag. "And Cuddy hasn't killed you? She's losing her touch."

"She's just sharpening her claws. It'll happen soon enough." Wilson gaped at House.

"You seem pretty relaxed about all this. Didn't she give you until the end of this week to narrow the candidates down to five. You haven't interviewed anyone. At all."

"What can she do?"

"Make you work in the clinic 9-5? Every day?" House shrugged. Why did everything that Wilson said seem to be in the form of a question? "You must have something sinister planned. You can't be this relaxed. You hate the clinic."

"That, I do." He said calmly. House actually had the candidates narrowed to three. He was planning on seeing them the next morning. Wilson didn't have to know that. Not yet.

"I thought you STOPPED taking the anti-depressants." To Wilson, that seemed the only logical explanation: that House, contrary to popular opinion, had continued taking the anti-depressants that Wilson had given him. House nodded non-committally as Cuddy swept into the cafeteria, stopping at the salad bar.

"Wicked witch at 1:00." House ducked, hiding his face behind a nearby newspaper, like a mischievous schoolboy.

"Your 1:00 or mine?" he inquired conspiratorially. "She IS going to kill you, you know. Whatever your plot is, you better have it ready, because she's headed right this way." House smiled distantly as Cuddy approached, stopping at their table.

"Gentlemen…" She was smiling. Never a good sign in Wilson's book. She enjoyed her work as House Tamer way too much, he thought; relished yelling at him, and if he wasn't mistaken, being yelled right back at by House himself. She was ready and waiting for the forthcoming fight, he was certain. Wilson sighed.

"Join us?" House's tone was solicitous, dripping with an inviting sort of sincerity. He had to be planning something. Wilson felt as if he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. Gruesome, but impossible from which to look away.

"Fellows. Five candidates. By…" she glanced at her watch. "Tomorrow." She smiled beatifically; her voice cutting, her stance waiting for his counter punch.

"I have my candidates. Three, actually. Two women; one man. Cardiologist, immunologist, intensivist. Ran out of 'ologists' in the CV pile. One from Cornell, one from Albert Einstein, one from UCLA. All firsts in their class; class A residencies. One's actually a good candidate for you Cuddy. Early 40's, single dad. He's the cardiologist from California. Could be your type. Who knows?" Cuddy sucked in a breath, shaking off the sincerity in House's voice for the show she hoped it was.

"I'm impressed. Have you actually spoken to any of them?"

"Didn't need to. We'll all get to meet them soon enough. Tomorrow: 8 a.m., 9 a.m. and 10 a.m. Don't be late." Wilson watched, stunned. This, he would never have expected. Had to be a catch. A big one.

"Can't wait." Cuddy walked off with her tray, her lab coat floating behind her. House watched with interest as she sashayed away.

"Zesty bod. Don't'cha think, Jimmy?"

"So who are these fellowship candidates?" Wilson was not going to go there. Not going to take the bait. Been there. Done that.

"Who the hell knows. Three bodies to fill my fellowship slots. They're smart, at least on paper; two babes. Intensivist has pediatric experience; immunologist was a Fulbright fellow with Rowan Chase in Oz a few years ago. Cardio guy is divorced, wants out of his nice, comfortable, but, as he put it 'boring and disillusioning' suburban practice treating guys who don't know how to say 'no' to pizza and sliders. Any more you want to know, stop by my office tomorrow morning. Gotta go. I hear an STD calling from the clinic. Time to go swab a crotch." House picked up his cane and left without another word.

After a moment to absorb the shock, Wilson bused his tray and headed straight for Cuddy's office.

"He's going to crack. I can practically see the fissures."

"What? Why?" Cuddy was confused by Wilson's concern.

"We both know him. This is NOT how he reacts to….to…to stuff like this. It's not him. He's losing it." Cuddy sat in her chair, putting her feet up on the desk, steepling her fingers. "It's right there under the surface. You can't feel it?"

"Wilson… I dunno. Maybe House is right. Maybe he IS OK with it—his staff all gone. Maybe he's found a way to cope."

House and Cuddy had decided the morning after their first night together that Wilson was not going to know about their relationship. Not right away. This thing they had, whatever it was, and wherever it was going, was apart and separate from the hospital from their careers; their professional relationship as Dean of Medicine and Department Head. It was the only way it would have any chance of succeeding: to keep their professional lives, and other friends, out of it. For now.

Years of practice had made both House and Cuddy virtual professionals at compartmentalizing their lives. It was a skill that, at least most of the time, allowed them, as doctors, to be objective. For House it was a literal and very critical survival skill.

House returned to his office, wandering first into the now-darkened outer office, past the empty white board and into his inner-sanctum. He collapsed into the Eames chair, exhausted. His nights with Cuddy were exquisite, but tiring; he resisted sleep as long as she was there, trying to avoid a repeat of his display the week before. Once, he could shrug off as bad pizza or something equally banal. A second night of waking in a cold sweat, terrified and disoriented would not be so easily explained. Cuddy was no idiot, and she would probe until she had analyzed the damn dream to death. Cat naps on the Eames chair was a much preferable solution, at least for the moment.

In a way—in a big way—he was grateful for the loneliness of the office and the unmistakable absence of Cameron, Chase and Foreman. No personal questions and meaningful stares from Cameron; no useless insights into his psyche from Chase; no sneering from Foreman. He could grow accustomed to the absence of that sneer. House fell into a welcome sleep as Bruch played in his ear.

……..

Vivid images: An icy rain pelting the ground sounding like machine gun fire on the metal gutters. Lightning flashes illuminating a pitch black sky. Fifteen…sixteen. The predictable crash. Sixteen miles away.

He's yelling, but he can't hear himself: the downpour drowns his voice as he tries the kitchen door knob over and over to no avail. Running breathlessly against the rain and wind: first to his mother's car and then his father's old Ford, hoping that one of the doors would be unlocked and he could find some sort of refuge from the rain. Nothing. The rain falling even harder and the wind picking up until even the trees are screaming. The lightning approaches closer as the minutes pass: five…six…seven…eight… seconds. Eight miles away and to the west. No shelter except the big willow tree -- not as good an idea as he had thought just a moment ago.

"You lied to me." He hadn't lied. He was trying to explain. "Not really lied." But there was no "not really" in John House's rule book. His mother, who, in the dream is wearing necklaces of red and black electrical leads that trail behind her like a cans on a "just married car," is a human lie detector. She had found the truth in the 12 year old's eyes. "Bet you're sorry now, mom. That you told him," he says to the wind, which refuses to answer.

Not a lie. Not the truth either. He sees the dog from within the shadows of his mind, idealized into a helpless puppy. White and fluffy. A bichon frisse, maybe. He hadn't really brought the stray dog into the house. He'd kept it in the garage. The mangy animal, scraggly and one-eyed had an injured leg; attacked by Charlie Nelson's pit bull; Nelson laughing about the pitiful mutt being no match for his father's purebred fighting dog.

Didn't they understand? He'd had no choice. "I will not have that flea-bitten animal in this house. Probably has rabies." "No. It doesn't have rabies," he pleads to no avail, trying to commute the dog's death sentence. Who would take him? And even if they did…the mutt's fate was not a happy one.

House sees the dog, as time jumps back a day and a half, wary and skittish, snapping half-heartedly at the approaching 12 year old boy. Resolve overcame fear and drew Greg nearer, more snapping—and not so half-heartedly as before. He opens Mom's refrigerator, six slices of Oscar Meyer bologna not-so-neatly procured. Back to the dog, who is now hunkered down on the edge of the grass. Greg's calm voice and persistence gradually gains the trust of the broken animal. Steady, patient hands. He looks at the limb, and after securing the dog in a cardboard carton, and finding his dad's first aid kit, Greg manages to bandage the dog's leg, not sure if the limb was broken. The dog's eyes less wary now, an ally found, a licked hand, and all Greg can think of are the symptoms of rabies he read in a book.

But it's the best he can do, and it would have to suffice. He probably should have put the kit back properly and sealed the bologna, he thinks, in retrospect. He had not covered his tracks well, and he knew his dad was not fond of dogs or any other domestic animals. His mom wasn't too fond of them either.

A garage door opening slightly, flashes the image back to the immediate crisis, only slightly less surreal as a cardboard container is shoved through the door, dashing Greg's hopes for the dinner and warm bed. He is afraid, and his fear is all he has, and he wants to die. Because living sucks, and given a choice between this Hell or that, he'd rather have one that's a little warmer and drier.

He watches the stunned dog try to maneuver into a corner of the box to escape the pouring rain; within minutes there is nothing left of the box and the injured animal lay there staring with pleading eyes at Greg to do something. Greg's eyes beg for the dog's forgiveness as he clutches the luckless dog--a kindred spirit--beneath Greg's sopping windbreaker.

A flash of lightning splits the nightmare of a storm hours later, yet only a second in the mindscape of memory, starling 12-year old Gregory House from his resigned calm just in time to see the old willow split in two. The ensuing crash of thunder is close enough to nearly deafen him, waking up Blythe and John. "It's the old tree," he heard John explain to Blythe from inside the safety of the house. "It's morning, John, please let him come in. It's enough. He'll catch pneumonia out there." Gregory looked down to see the lifeless form of the dog in the same position he was in earlier, curled against Greg's shivering body. "It'll be alright," he whispers raggedly to no one in particular as he nudges the dog, who refuses to move. Stunned, Greg beseeched the animal to move, quietly at first and then louder and louder until his screams, which have no effect, bring John to his side. He feels John's presence looming above him. "You killed it. You fucking killed it. See? You're not responsible enough for a dog. You're useless. Fucking useless. You don't deserve a pet…" "John enough! Let him in the house," he hears from beyond his tears. And then a blur; and then nothing.

Greg wakes up in the warmth of his own bed. "Stupid kid stayed out all night, what'd he expect?" "Pneumonia…" "Hospital…" "Coulda died…" "Coulda, woulda, shoulda." Words, hazy visions dancing pyrotechnics around the edges of Greg's consciousness. "One hundred four…" "Must've lost his damn house key…" Excuses, explanations, laughter. "boys will be boys…" The laughter growing more surreal and louder, surrounding him, suffocating him until he could no longer breathe… And then her voice above the rest, soaring like a swallow, soft and strong. He knew that voice, but it didn't belong to his mother. He couldn't quite place it--who…?

"House? House! Wake up!" Someone was shaking him. Hard. He gasped, struggling with his breathing. His wrists were being held, firmly but gently. He opened his eyes to see Cuddy staring down at him, holding his wrists. He struggled, fighting her off. "House. It's me." He was having an anxiety attack of some sort, which terrified her. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him like this.

Slowly, he came back to himself. He was too shaken to cover immediately. "Bad dream," he managed. Cuddy sat on the ottoman, nudging his feet over, maintaining eye contact with him.

"That was NOT just a 'bad dream.' You were in a full-blown panic attack. You do NOT have panic attacks."

"It was vivid. A bad, vivid, dream. It was too real, it must've…" House was still groggy. Had he taken something to help him sleep? He couldn't quite remember.

"What was it? Do you remember any of it? Scary monsters? Space aliens?" House broke eye contact, choosing instead to stare out into the middle distance of the office.

"Nothing so scifi. Mundane almost. Most mundane. But on the other hand, some of the scariest monsters are terrifyingly ordinary, aren't they?" He was speaking the words, but not to her, but to some phantom in the room. House exhaled a ragged breath, and then another. Discussion over. Cuddy sighed, at a loss. Two nightmares, at least, in a week. The doctor in he was curious; the lover in her was worried. And scared.


	4. Chapter 4

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 4

"You look different." The _non-__sequitor_ failed to serve its intended purpose, which was to deflect from the question at hand.

"No way! When are they starting? Don't think you can distract me by changing the subject."

"But you do. Look different. Something….I don't know…softer… Anyway, probably nothing. Just my imagination. September first, by the way." She should be accustomed at this point to the whiplash-inducing zigzag of their conversations.

"Why not next week? I can use them in the clinic; you know that."

"Yeah, by personal experience. You never heard of summer vacations?"

"Maybe when I was 14…" She sighed. "I want them starting within the month. By August 1st at the latest. Until then, you get to do their clinic hours." Cuddy would not allow him to do this. Not now. She walked out of House's office, not waiting for his reply. He followed.

"You can't make me… I…" House called, trying to catch up to Cuddy.

"What?" She stopped suddenly and wheeled on him, her glare daring him to say another word about it. "We're done, House. With this," she added carefully and with less venom: "We need to talk."

"I thought we were finished talking." Cuddy glanced up and down the corridor to assure herself that they weren't attracting attention.

She gestured first toward House and then herself. "About this," she half-whispered.

"What about this? Which this? I'm confused." He wasn't, but he was sure Cuddy was heading in that direction herself. He smiled at the wordplay, but the words "we need to talk" were laden with all sorts of things—and very few of them good.

Cuddy surveyed the corridor a second time. They were still alone. "About us." There it was; the other half of: "we've got to talk." And now he was quite certain that there was nothing good about the nature of this "talk" they had to have.

"Fine."

"Fine. Can you come to my place?" The request sounded too formal. Of course he could come to her place. Like he often did. Usually it was "my place or yours?" Or "lets go to my place because I have the leftover pizza in my refrigerator from last night." Which made this all the more interesting since last night's leftovers were in his refrigerator. Cuddy wanted to talk--and she wanted home field advantage.

House sighed. "Fine." House returned to his office, curious, but with an unmistakable sense of impending disaster lingering, and doing back flips in his gut. He tried to immerse himself in the journal article he was preparing for the New England Journal of Medicine. Discovering the third Ostium in Marina had been the key to curing her: an extremely rare heart defect, and he had called it—eventually. House had been asked to write up the case for the prestigious journal. It would be the fifth paper he had published in the Journal, but the first in many, many years.

He always hated writing this sort of article. Once a case was solved; it was solved. No need to dwell on it; just file for future use. But even House understood the value to other doctors of this discovery, and normally he would have had one of the fellows submit it for peer review. But…oops…no fellows. He sighed, studying Marina's scans, as his eyes wandered over to the stack of pain management monographs and papers that sat unread on his credenza. They would have to wait.

House was startled as his office door opened. "I'm thinking of asking Cuddy out again. I got tickets to Coast of Utopia. I know you won't want to go. So…" Wilson mile-a-minute determination brought an amused, but wary, smile to House's face.

"Don't you believe in knocking? And that would be a 'no.' Bad idea." House made an effort to keep his voice even.

"Why? It's not like she's…"

"Are you having memory problems? You've been there, remember? Broadway; the not-Hockney exhibit? No. If you have an itch to scratch, do it with some poor unsuspecting nurse. She'll never know what hit her. You are NOT doing it with Cuddy. Anyway, if she was interested, you two would have already walked down the aisle, begun a little Wilson and YOU would have filed divorce papers. So, yeah. That would be a big fat 'no'." House's tone was adamant. Although, he thought he had done a creditable job of keeping the desperation out of it.

"My memory is fine, hence the 'again' in my initial statement. And since when are you such an expert?"

"I just know. I am a keen observer of the human condition. Especially yours. I thought you knew that."

"Yeah. That genius thingy. I forgot," Wilson replied dismissively. "But I didn't know your diagnostic skills extended to relationships. I mean…because you're so accomplished yourself and all…"

"Fine, then. Ask her. She'll say no, and then you'll get that wounded puppy look that we both know is as fake as Julie's boobs were …and Cuddy'll go out with you, even though it's the last thing she wants to do because she'll feel guilty…and then you'll both regret it, and…."

"Enough. You watch too many soaps."

"I'm trying to cut down. And anyway, they're educational. Where do you think I got my exquisitely keen knowledge of the human condition…?" Wilson waved his arm dismissively towards House, exiting the office as his pager went off. House stared ahead for several minutes after Wilson's departure, thinking that was the last thing he needed right now. Fucking great. Cuddy was going to end it tonight with him, and there was Wilson, waiting in the wings with theatre tickets, a BMW, probably a diamond ring…and a sound body, none of which House had to offer.

And of course there was that dream thing. For the first time in a year he wasn't battling some internal crisis or another; and then there was Cuddy, a sudden and welcome adjunct to the fragile calm of his life these days. And maybe he simply didn't deserve it: the taste of happiness; the whiff of normalcy.

His father had told him that more than enough times, for as many years as he could remember... "You're not normal." "Why can't you be like other kids?" "You only know how to mope around; you've got no fucking friends." "Think you're too good for them? Well you're wrong. You don't deserve THEM. They're too good for you. They always will be." "You're a fucking misfit." House closed his eyes against the barrage of words thundering off the recesses of his mind and hitting true and hard like well-placed blows.

House talked a good game, he knew. Fooled the world with his whizbang brilliance: fucking shell game. That's all it was. That's all it will be; Cuddy would be better off, because when it came down to it, House would fail her. Inevitably.

House probed behind the edges of the dreams, examining the reality behind them. His parents seemed normal, typical marine officer family folk. Had things really been as bad as his dreams suggested to his sleeping mind; and that he recalled so vividly when awakened from them? Was anything his father did to him really that undeserved? Discipline was part of the routine, wasn't it, back in those days?

Maybe things had not been so bad, after all. They traveled; House had seen more of the world by age 17 than most adults see in a lifetime. It couldn't have been that bad if… House was startled from quiet consideration of the facts by the echo of memory: sounds and images coming from somewhere in the back reaches of his mind. The sound of metal hitting flesh was what startled him and House's stomach clenched to it. He retched at the realism of it; he could almost feel it. His father's voice cut through the sound: "You think you're too big to be punished? Too old? Well think again you useless…" House blinked away the image, shuddering as he shook it off, finally coming back to himself.

House dropped his head into his hands until the sick feeling passed, feeling time slip by, until he felt able to stand. House sighed deeply, dreading the evening to come, but finding no way out of it. He gathered his things and headed off to Cuddy's.


	5. Chapter 5

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 5

"OK. I'm here. You wanted to talk; and I'm all ears." Cliché as it was, House always believed that the best defense was a good offense.

"And hello to you, too." House followed Cuddy to the kitchen; the scent of cumin and coriander wafted in the air and into his nose.

"Curry?" It wasn't like Cuddy to go to the trouble of actually cooking. Usually it was take out or dine out; or delivery—depending. "I didn't know you could actually cook."

"I can't, but I CAN read a recipe book and follow directions. Got an 'A' in organic chem lab back in college and everything. Figured: how different was cooking from chemistry? So…" Her tone was conversational but she seemed nervous—flitting about the kitchen like a butterfly not certain of where to alight. "There," she said finally, replacing the cover on a large pot and setting a timer. "Be ready in 30 minutes."

She led him into the living room, sitting on the sofa; he sat in the chair opposite, not certain that the sofa was where he should be sitting. House hated this: the careful dance—prelude to the inevitable crash. On the other hand, she _had_ cooked dinner. She must have been planning on his staying beyond "the conversation," suggesting that she wasn't necessarily planning to end it with him. So, what was it, then? House was confused as Cuddy's eyes glanced everywhere but at him. He sighed, anxious. Finally, House sucked in a breath, preparing. "OK. You summon me here, cook dinner, which you never do, by the way, and want to talk. So talk. By the way, Wilson's going to ask out. Just thought I'd give you a heads up, in case…"

"Did you tell him anything? I mean…"

"I know what you mean. And no. I didn't; is there even anything to tell?" House stared into her eyes, the question hanging precariously in the air.

Cuddy shook her head, not understanding. "Tell him—about us, of course. What do you mean: 'is there anything…' Can you, for once, say what you mean? House…" she looked at him as he sat on the chair opposite, as a flash of realization told her what he was thinking. House always knew…could always pick up on everyone's signals, except when they related to him. It didn't much matter, she considered dimly, what House thought now, because once she told him…it was probably going to be a moot point anyway. There was no point worrying the edges of this band-aid. Yank it off and hope it's not going to bleed. She breathed deeply. "I'm pregnant."

There. She said it; blurted it out: a spontaneous whisper, igniting as a flame and dissipating in the air of her living room. Her eyes darted anywhere but into his, terrified as to what she would see in them. Not that it mattered, she told herself, only half convincingly. In a way, she supposed, it didn't matter what his reaction was. Cuddy had been trying to get pregnant for more than a year, only to give up months later, knowing with all certainty that it was never going to happen. Not for her.

House had known since the day he had dutifully appeared in her office to administer her latest round of injections only to be told that that the previous round had taken; and that she had miscarried one week after her missed period. She had thanked him for his help and his discretion, but she was through with the misguided notion that she could still be a mother. House had wordlessly left her office with a nod—no further reaction forthcoming. And now, here they were; and here she was…waiting for his reaction, seeing him, in her mind's eye, nod gravely and without a word, leaving her alone with the simmering curry and little else.

She had said it so quickly, so quietly that he wasn't entirely certain that she had said it at all—or conversely that she had said something else. His mind searched for homophonous words, and finding none, resorted to considering something glib to say in response to her sudden declaration. He'd thought of several, but each evaporated on his tongue: his mouth parched; his lips incredulous. "You're pregnant." It was all the best he could conjure: not quite a question; not quite a statement—more a thought expressed aloud and of its own volition.

Cuddy began to remind him of their encounter three weeks earlier in his kitchen. "I'm sorry," she began. "I never thought I could…I don't…" House got up, turning away from her, finding an old framed photograph on her mantle suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. He picked it up, studying the old couple in the picture. "Eastern Europe? I didn't know your great grandfather was a rabbi." His voice was even; he was almost speaking to himself. In truth, House didn't know quite what to say. This was unknown territory and was at a loss.

When Cuddy had been trying for all those months to get pregnant, House had supported her; kept her confidence; dutifully administered injections. He had teased her endlessly about genetics and picking the right father. "Someone you trust," he recalled telling her early on, deriding her decision to keep emotion out of her decision-making process. She had sniped back at him. "Someone like you?" "Someone you like," he had responded, turning the words back into common sense. And then she had lost the baby on the third go-round. And that was that. Or so he had thought. So they both had thought.

"How far along are you?" It was a neutral question, and one to which he knew the answer. Three weeks. Kitchens, Cuddy and cooking. House heard the ding of a timer. And curry. He sighed and replaced the picture frame.

"My period's a week late as of now. I did an OTC test three days ago and it was negative. I did another, this morning. Not negative." The words "it was positive" refused to form on her tongue. Cuddy's first thought had been to simply end the pregnancy and not tell anyone. Not even House.

She was 42 years old, and had already miscarried once on _in vitro_. Objectively thinking, the chances of this pregnancy even being viable were small to none. She knew that; tried to convince herself of it. But then she thought of all the months: the injections, the waiting, the disappointment when she felt the tenderness in breasts fade into nothing each month. She thought of the photographer, Emma, fighting for the right to have her baby: fighting House; fighting against all common sense. And Cuddy knew she couldn't do it. Couldn't intentionally end this nascent life. House could do whatever he wanted to do. No strings; no responsibility. But he should know. And once he knew, he could do with that knowledge whatever he wanted to do. The kitchen timer went unheeded.

House returned to Cuddy, sitting, this time, on the sofa opposite her. He wanted to tell her that he was fine with whatever she chose to do: keep it or abort. It was up to her. It had to be up to her. She would be the one bearing all the risk, and he had no right to impose his own view of the matter-- whatever that was--since, right at the moment, he had no idea as to what he thought, or what to think.

His eyes explored, raking over her face and her form. He had known that there was something different about her these past several days. That softness…something…and now he knew what it was. This was something she had wanted for more than a year; her biological clock ticking down into now-or-never territory, and finally stopping altogether. For Cuddy, this had to be a reprieve of sorts. He sought out her eyes, wanting to know her heart so that whatever he said on the matter would be the right thing. It was too easy to be wrong when you're completely out of your depth.

"What do you want to do?" He kept his voice neutral, neither accusatory nor too expectant. "Should I be happy about this?" he asked looking down at his hands. He knew immediately he should have stopped at the first question, and never allow the second past his lips. The second, she picked up and hurled back at him, glaring.

"How the hell should I know how you should feel, House? I can't tell you whether to be happy or pissed as hell. Only you can do that. As far as what I want to do? I haven't a fucking clue. It's my fault. I know that. You wanted to get a condom. And I told you that I wasn't going to get pregnant…" Her tone was defiant, but her voice was trembling with the effort to control her emotions.

"I AM a doctor, Cuddy. So I do know that 'I'm not going to get pregnant' isn't necessarily guarantee. Especially not in the throes of passion, so…if there's any blame…if you want to call it that…I think there's plenty to share." He had moved closer to her on the sofa. He needed her to know that whatever she needed him for, he was going to be there. He didn't know anything about being a father; he only knew how to NOT be one. And House pretty sure that it wasn't quite enough to go on. The only things he could think to say right then were platitudes, and platitudes were for idiots and fools. They were useless. But he didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing, choosing instead to get up again an pace the room.

"How would you feel if I said I wanted to keep it?" She was still feeling him out; feeling her way around in the dark. Cuddy's nostrils picked up the vaguely sweet aroma of something burning.

He stopped, turning back towards her. "It's your baby…"

"No, House. You're wrong. It's our baby," she snapped. The aroma was stronger. "Shit. The curry. I think it's burning…" Cuddy got up, hurriedly, running to the kitchen to turn off the stove. House followed, slower, behind her, perfectly timed to see her slam the pot lid against the counter. "It's fucking ruined. All of it."

"So? It's only dinner. I think there are places…I know I've seen them all over Princeton. What are they called, now…? …rests…resters…something…anyway, all you have to do is call or…" He was trying to lighten her mood, she knew. It wasn't helping.

"That's not…"

"I _know_ what you meant. At least I think I do. Yeah. The curry's ruined, but it's the only thing. Well, maybe the pot, but you get my point. Nothing's changed…not for me…unless _you_ want it to be. I certainly don't. I was being serious. This is your decision. I'm fine with whatever you decide. It's your risk and I can't ask you to keep it, knowing the risk to you…and the fetus. But I also can't ask you to abort it, knowing how much you've wanted to have a child. Even at your advanced age…" The corners of his mouth quirked as Cuddy's eyes glistened, the ghost of a smile crossing them, ever so briefly. "We'll figure it out."

"You know, Wilson would have probably proposed by now." Tears were running down her cheeks.

"No. Wilson would have run by now. And even if he hadn't, Wilson's longest marriage was three years. I with Stacy for five and she left me. Wilson is never the safe choice, marriage or living in sin. I thought you knew that."

"I do know it. And I thought you knew--that. We'll figure it out," she sighed tiredly.

"I already said that. C'mere." Dinner was forgotten until morning, when breakfast was the more appropriate meal to be taken. And there would be much to discuss.


	6. Chapter 6

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 6

Had the circumstances been more hospitable to Cuddy's news, their bed would have been filled with promise, sweetness, comfort and delight. Both House and Cuddy were distracted and distant; their sex desperate and filled with uncertainty; silence instead of joy. But to leave her, with nothing settled, with questions hanging precariously in the air between them, would have been the height of betrayal. And House had been betrayal's victim too many times to inflict it upon her. And so he stayed, and they desperately clung to each other for a bit before turning away from each other's view, sequestered each within their own world, considering the future.

Hours later…or was it only minutes?…Cuddy felt the bed shift as House again moved restlessly. A glance at the alarm clock told her it was merely 10 minutes past the last time she had looked. One forty-five a.m. So he wasn't sleeping either, at least she didn't think so.

She heard him suck in a breath as he did each time he got out of bed. Cuddy had trained herself ignore her instincts and not reach out towards him, granting him his dignity and a little privacy. She visualized him biting his lower lip as he bit back the pain, willing it to a place where it could scream silently in the dark. His effort to not wake her: Herculean.

"House?" Her whisper a hedge against waking him in the unlikely case she was mistaken and he had simply shifted in his sleep. Eyes now adjusted to the dark, she could see him nod slightly in acknowledgement of her presence. "I've decided to keep it," she said simply, softly. Another nod, as if he had known her decision since before she, herself, had made it a fact. Her words simply confirming that knowledge.

House went into the hall bathroom, closing the door, leaving Cuddy alone with her decision. A year ago; hell, six months ago, she would have been ecstatic with this news. But back then, there did not exist the complication of a relationship with a man who on a good day was an enigma, and on a bad day…

And now? Now, she didn't know what to think. "Someone you like," she recalled him saying. "Someone you trust." And that's what she needed to do now. Trust him. Believe in him; believe that he won't betray that trust. House emerged from the bathroom, surprising her by heading back towards the bed rather than going out into the living room as was his custom, when he couldn't sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed next to Cuddy, taking her hand. "You know, this isn't going to be easy, Cuddy."

"I know. I'm so sorry that I…"

"It's not what I meant…I…you're going to need constant monitoring, testing, ultrasounds. The chances that you'll be able to carry to full term are… And then there are the genetics, chromosomal issues that at…your age…placental issues…Placenta previa is…"

"Well it's good that I work at a hospital then, isn't it?" Cuddy smiled slightly. He was right, of course. But the fact that he was thinking about all of this; had probably been thinking about it since they had finished making love and had said "good night," said more about his commitment to this…to them…than any verbal assurances could have. "I have a great OB…"

"Is he a high risk specialist?"

"She. And yes; she specializes in 'old lady' pregnancies. I was planning on setting up an appointment for later this week. House. I am prepared for this; it's just a few months after I'd assumed it would never happen. Who would've thought? No IVF…just old fashioned messin' around." Cuddy sighed, gripping House's hand tighter. "Thank you." He looked away, not sure why she was thanking him. The tears he saw in her eyes, he attributed to hormones.

"Yeah, well, don't thank me yet. You may live to rue the day soon enough." He stood again, his face trying to hide the wave of pain slicing through his right thigh. "Listen. My inclination is to tell Wilson about us, but not this. Not yet." Predictably, House was seeking a change of subject, but just as predictably, Wilson's renewed interest in Cuddy was also weighing on him.

"I agree. Tell him whatever you want. And I also think that it's a bit premature to tell him about the pregnancy. Come to bed."

"Not yet…I think…"

"It's nearly two…" But he was already up. She was aware of how rarely he seemed to sleep these days. She'd seen him catnap everywhere around the hospital: his office; the clinic; even watching General Hospital. Normally she would yell at him for napping at work, but given the circumstances…

And then there were his nightmares. Two, just in the last week. Dreams that left his eyes filled with a pain deeper than anything she'd seen his leg trigger. He'd declined to discuss them, preferring to simply laugh it off as bad food, or bad karma, or bad anything but sex (thank God). Instinct told her to leave him be, to not go to him in the living room. And fatigue told her to let herself sleep. And now that it was settled, her decision made and out in the open, she was able to allow herself to finally rest, smiling, almost giddy, as she drifted off.

House shook two Vicodin from the pill bottle, chasing them with water. His mouth was too parched to swallow them dry. He paced the rooms, a lame phantom, as his mind raced through scenario upon scenario, each ending badly. Wilson would tell him to rely on instinct. "People never think they're going to be good parents" He could almost hear Wilson's voice chirping like Jiminy Cricket, in his ear. "But instincts take over and…"

Yeah. That's what Wilson would say from his limited view of parenting. The best of parenting: crisis mode when even the worst parents seem to rise above instinct. And what could be worse than watching your kid die of cancer? "That's not a valid sampling," House would counter. Experience has taught him diffferent story, skewed, he knew, and completely in the opposite direction. Unconditional love does not exist; not everyone was born with parenting instincts; and, if genetics factored in, the odds were not in House's favor. No, House's instincts told him something else. To run like Hell away from this before Cuddy's unborn child was sucked cruelly into the vortex of House's darkness. But he wouldn't. Run, that is. He was too much of a coward for that.

Cuddy would agree with Wilson, that they'd somehow muddle through—that he would somehow muddle through. But what did she know? She was the one who thought she couldn't get pregnant. Hah! Besides, Cuddy harbored some bizarre, romanticized notion of who House really was.

But she really didn't know him, couldn't know him. To Cuddy, he was a wounded falcon; a lion with a thorn in his paw: dangerous, but not to her, because she could heal him; because she knew him; because she understood him. And she did, after a fashion, understand him. Certainly more than Cameron ever would. But there was too much she didn't understand. How could she, when there was too much that he, himself, didn't understand? Things half-remembered, conflated (or not), that conjured themselves into the monsters that lived in his closet, visiting only in the vulnerability of night; of sleep. Clichés about apples and trees, fathers and sons careened through House's consciousness as he lay on her sofa, trying not to sleep; trying not to think; not to dream.

"Did you sleep at all?" Cuddy's presence startled him as he moved his forearm from his eyes, pausing to scrub the sleepiness from them.

"What time is it?"

"Seven. It's a work day."

"Five hours isn't enough sleep for you."

"It'll have to do. It's not like I slept all that well, anyway." She looked at House, studying his face. She was pretty sure that five hours was far, far more sleep than he'd had.

"Take the day off. We'll drink champagne…I'll drink Champagne; no more alcohol for you, sorry. We'll make wild, passionate love all day. I've always had this fantasy about pregnant women and..."

"Enough." Cuddy suppressed a laugh. Well, he seemed OK, so maybe this was settling on him better than she thought it would. "Work. This can't affect work. Not yet. I'm going to be tired all the time. I know that. And nauseous for the next three months. But that's a good thing. Means the hormones are all doing what they're supposed to do. I'm an endocrinologist. I know things. Which means that the father of said fetus does not have hormones that tell him that he's tired or too sick to go into work and do his clinic hours so…" A serious expression crossed her eyes. "We can't let this change our working relationship. The board would have my ass so fast…"

"Can't let that happen. Your ass belongs strictly to me…"

"Fine. You want to keep it? Then get up, get showered and get ready for work. I'll even buy at Starbucks."

"Uh-uh. No Starbucks…"

"Decaf."

"Their decaf has like 20 caffeine in it."

"Fine. Herb tea then."

"Be ready in 20 minutes. Good thing you have two bathrooms." House watched her walk toward the master bath, open bathrobe swinging behind her. He sighed, his normal morning arousal getting no mercy from his thoughts of Cuddy, the curve of her ass and the soon to be blooming of her boobs. He smiled, pushing all dark thoughts neatly into the compartment labeled: "Private. Do not enter," and condemned himself to the welcome coldness of the shower.


	7. Chapter 7

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 7

House slammed the old textbook down on his desk. The heavy book seemed ever heavier for needing to heft it one handed. He opened it, rifling the pages as he sought the table of contents and then the correct chapter. Three weeks, more or less: the meeting of sperm and egg; implantation, cell division, embryo, more cell division, fetus. It was still pretty much an embryo after only three weeks. So much undifferentiated tissue: cells, chromosomes—a blob. In another few weeks, very few weeks, it would have form and substance: a detectable heartbeat. But it was still a fetus. And that's ALL it was.

House was the most curious of people. He needed to know things: how they worked ; why they worked—or why they didn't. This was nothing different. At least that's what he told himself. It was a fetus. Not even a fetus; an embryo. Period. He found the diagram he had been seeking. He ripped pages 102-107 from the book, and folding the pages carefully in half, placed them in his desk drawer.

Sighing, he looked at his watch, noting that he still had an hour until today's stint in the clinic began. House pulled his iPod from his backpack and sat back down at his desk with a stack of Pain Management back issues. His eyes were drawn to the doorway as he picked up an issue.

"She said 'no.'"

"Who said 'no'?" Wilson let himself into House's office and stood sullenly in front of his desk.

"Cuddy said 'no' to the theatre tickets and told me that she 'really wasn't interested in a relationship right now.' That can only mean one thing. Two, if you count the possibility that she's into girls now. So who do you think it is? Brenner in Ophthalmology? He's nice looking; smart…"

"You noticed that he's nice looking? Hmmm. Interesting. " House couldn't resist smirking. "And the 'into girls' thing: you've just given me an image to shower by for the next month. I owe you one." House could barely contain himself. Wilson was flustered. And when Wilson was flustered, he stuttered and sputtered and talked a mile a minute. It was better than good stand-up.

"It's got to be Brenner. Just her type. Tall, muscular…"

"It's so not Brenner." House swung his legs off the desk and stood facing the window, fidgeting with his cane.

"You know who it is." A statement. He figured that House knew who it was. House, who knows everything, about everybody, especially Cuddy. But, interestingly, also who, if he did know, would come running into Wilson's office like a 15 year old teenage girl with the soop. But not this time. "It's Chase, isn't it?" Wilson blurted with absolute certainty. House whipped around to face his friend, a shocked look on his face, followed by the beginnings of a smile. "It IS Chase. And you didn't come to me to gossip about it because Chase works for you and you're pissed that one of your lackeys, especially Chase, is sleeping with your boss and you…"

"It's not Chase. Did it occur to you that she said 'no' because she simply doesn't want a relationship with you? No interest in being Mrs. Wilson number 4? Or that she was telling the truth? That she's not interested in being involved with anyone at all?"

"What? Are you all of the sudden her defender? What happened to Wicked Witch of the East and all that?" Except for an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, House seemed unexpectedly subdued to Wilson. Not the demeanor he would have supposed would accompany a discussion of such juicy news. Conspiratorial was more the flavor he expected.

"It's me." House's words were barely audible, and he was looking everywhere but at Wilson.

Wilson began to laugh, assuming that House was trying to yank his chain with the notion. When he didn't hear House follow suit, he stopped and sat down heavily in a visitor chair. "It is NOT you. You wish it was you, so then you wouldn't have to share her attention with anyone. I've seen this play before. You DO know who it is; you're planning on telling him something typically outlandish about Cuddy to put him off her. But it has to be well planned, because you haven't done anything yet, and you haven't come up with quite the right diabolical scenario to ruin Cuddy's life…am I getting close?" Wilson had gone on talking without interruption. House just continued to stare at him wordlessly, his face a mask, except for the faintest of amused smiles.

"It's YOU?? It's you! Huh." A slight shake of House's head confirmed. "How long?"

"May."

"That's like two months. And you didn't think to tell me this? Your best friend? I mean…" To say that Wilson was stung and stunned would be underestimating. The hurt was evident in his eyes. "How could you not tell…?"

"She asked me not to."

"She asked you not to." He repeated House's words, still not quite believing of their veracity. "And since when has that ever stopped you before."

"I'm a real good secret keeper..."

"Evidently. You're sleeping with Cuddy. Lisa Cuddy, MD; endocrinologist; dean of medicine. That Lisa Cuddy. We are speaking about the same person, right? I mean I just want to make sure…" House's grin lit up like a neon lighted sign. He had to admit that this was an awful lot of fun.

"Love to chit chat, Jimmy, but I have to do my clinic hours. Can't be late! Take advantage of the fact that I'm sc…that I'm sleeping with the boss lady. Right?"

"Riiight. Yeah. And if I ask her. She'll confirm that you're not just SCREWING with my brain?"

"I don't think she'll be able to confirm that part. Just that I'm the reason she's not interested. Now. If you'll excuse me…" House was getting tired of the game. And annoyed that Wilson seemed just to be warming up. Wilson followed, much to House's chagrin, if not his surprise.

"You're in love with her." House stopped in his tracks as he was about to open his office door and turned to face Wilson

"It's a hell of a leap from 'I'm screwing with your head' over this to 'I'm in love with her.'" House rubbed his thumb over his forehead. "Look. Wilson. Do NOT say anything about this to anyone, particularly anyone in this hospital. The board isn't overly fond of me, and I would hate to think that my relationship with Cuddy could harm her standing or position with the board. It would be a bitch trying to break in a new dean, so just leave it alone. I know how you get. 'Overeager puppy with a new chewy toy' is the best I can come up with. So try to go against your instinct, and just let it be. Period."

Wilson stood dumbfounded in the corridor outside House's office as House disappeared towards the elevator foyer. He tried to wrap his brain around this bombshell as he headed toward his own office. Wilson had been aware of the tension that always seemed to spark between House and Cuddy whenever they were in the same room. House had always been a bit obsessed with her comings and goings, and, he suspected, much more. And he'd strongly suspected that they'd had one or two regretted-the-morning-after one-night stands, but that those were in the very distant past. But this…? This was something Wilson had not seen coming. At all.

He thought back a year to House's insistence that his dinner out with Cuddy wasn't a date. What about his concern during that time that Cuddy had cancer? House's concern had seemed odd to him at the time. But then, again, House could be pretty odd. He thought back over those conversations, flashing on House's seriousness; his insistence that it hadn't been a date, even after Wilson proved that it was. Cuddy didn't have cancer so, therefore…

And then, Cuddy had told him that she had been trying in-vitro months later…and that House had known about it? Why would House have known? How would House have known? And if he knew, why didn't he tell? Because Cuddy asked him not to? When had that meant anything to House…? But Cuddy's trying to conceive through in vitro was serious. And secret. So why would Cuddy have taken House into her confidence in the first place when she knows that House is the biggest gossip…? None of it made sense, but it all made perfect sense. Wilson pinched his wrist. Nope. He was not dreaming. He got up from his desk and made his way towards Cuddy's office.


	8. Chapter 8

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 8

To anyone looking in through Cuddy's office door, it was situation normal. They appeared to be arguing about something. So what else was new? Wilson's hand was on the doorknob to her outer office when he viewed House and Cuddy engaged in a heated discussion. He waited, watching, hearing only brief sound bites, including his own name, when their voices raised above conversational. Abruptly, House rose from his seat in front of Cuddy's desk and approached her, both nodding slightly in agreement about something. Cuddy also stood, and Wilson, feeling suddenly very much the voyeur, backed away from the door as he watched House lift Cuddy's face towards his own, brush a stray hair from her face, kissing her gently on the forehead. Another nod from House and he turned towards the door to exit the office, only then noticing Wilson, who now stood in the doorway.

"I have to go to the clinic. You two have fun." House brushed past Wilson. "Couldn't wait to come down here and gossip, could you?" House whispered in Wilson's ear with exaggerated disdain.

Not awaiting an invitation, Wilson made himself comfortable in Cuddy's easy chair. "He's why you said 'no?' Why didn't you tell me the reason?" Wilson genuine hurt mingled with disbelief, causing Cuddy's eyes to suffuse with guilt.

"We only decided to tell anyone at all…and only to you…last night. This is NOT for public disclosure, Wilson. To anyone. You're the person closest to House…"

"Evidently not…" Cuddy shot him a glare; Wilson backed off. "Fine. This…whatever it is…is it serious? I mean as anything with House can be serious…"

"It's serious. It probably has been for a long time, actually," she added cryptically. Wilson arched an eyebrow.

"Is it good?"

"Why do you care?" Cuddy sighed. "Most of the time," she conceded. "It's hard for him. The leg…of course, and the pain from it… But there's more to it than that. He tries to guard me against how difficult it is for him simply living day to day. Doesn't want to disappoint me; doesn't want me to know when… He tries to make it not matter. But it's like trying to conceal a roaring lion in a small room. And then there are the dreams. Terrible dreams that I think frighten the shit out of him. And either he doesn't remember them or simply won't talk about them…it's almost as if he's got PTSD. I'm not sure where that's coming from. Again, he tries not to sleep, and most of the time I don't think even he's aware of them, but occasionally they wake him. And…" She felt like she was letting out a terrible secret, betraying House in a fundamental way; but she couldn't stop herself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be…" All of the anxiety that she had forced from her consciousness for two months came bursting to the surface.

Wilson knew exactly the place from which Cuddy was coming. And maybe that's why she felt she could confide in him. Being involved with House was complicated, frustrating and difficult; sometimes impossible. But the rewards outweighed the frustration; earning the trust of a person who trusted no one, who felt that world teeter-tottered on the brink of the next betrayal, was a rare gift. Being close enough to House to see and even occasionally understand how his gifted and passionate mind operated was worth a little frustration.

"Just be careful. For both of your sakes, just make damn sure it's what you want."

"Gee thanks." She grimaced at Wilson. "For what it's worth, we've been sniffing around each other for a very long time. I suppose it had to happen eventually."

"Look, Cuddy, House is a lot more…I don't know…fragile…sensitive…whatever…than he lets on. I've only seen him fall in love once…"

"Stacy. I know. The love of his life. Duh. So?"

"When she left…"

"Which time?"

"First time. When she left, he fell apart."

"He did not. I was there, remember? He was the same ass as he always was." Wilson cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah. But you weren't the one who had to pick up the pieces. That, he left for me. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep. He nearly…"

"I'm not Stacy," she interrupted, not wanting to go where she knew Wilson was headed. "And the situation is different. Look, Wilson, it is what it is, so just leave it alone. Don't you have anywhere to be?" Cuddy rose, signaling an end to the meeting as her phone rang. "This is Dr. Cuddy…Four is fine. See you then."

Cuddy turned to see Wilson still in her office. "I hope it works out for you. I do."

"Thank you," she sighed. She watched him as he left, hoping that House was right to tell him; worrying that she had revealed too much. Cuddy glanced at her watch. Eleven.

The PPTH free clinic was bustling, but not hugely busy for late morning. Glancing at the roster she saw that House was manning Exam 3. She approached the room as the door opened: House was handing a red sucker to a little boy; high-fiving him with his other hand. She had to smile. He addressed the mother, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look, I realize you think motherhood grants you an automatic medical degree; and the interweb is, generally speaking, a good substitute for a professional medical doctor with a license and all, but unless you want to kill…"

"Dr. House?" An opportune moment to interrupt. House stopped the tirade momentarily, turning to see Cuddy standing directly behind him. The mother escaped, her son being dragged reluctantly behind her. House shrugged.

"Dr. Cuddy."

"A moment?" Cuddy gestured towards the exam room as House noted the tension around her eyes.

"Finish with Wilson?" Cuddy quirked an eyebrow. "It's the way you've got your arms crossed in front of you. Dead give-away that you're tense. What'd he do? Convince you that you were out of your mind for hooking up with me? That's he's the 'safe' choice? You're shuttling me into an exam room instead of yelling at me that I'm not seeing the next patient fast enough, which means that what you've got to say is more important than clinic. Ergo I'm history."

"Ergo, nothing. You told him, and I was simply the next logical stop on the tour."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Enough. But not everything. Not about the pregnancy. Speaking of which, I have a four o'clock appointment in Lawrenceville with my OBG." House quirked an eyebrow. "I prefer to keep my private life…private," she explained. Which means, unfortunately, that I have to give up the convenience of seeing docs here."

"Where does your OBG have privileges? Inquiring minds need to know. Princeton-Plainsborough has the best…"

"By the time it's…time…she'll have privileges here. She's a top notch high risk OB. You're free to come along if you want. If you keep your mouth shut and don't try to intimidate her.

"Oh goody. I wanted to ask about the expected growth rate of your burgeoning breasts…you know, when they'll begin to blossom. When they'll get really enormous. I wanna watch. Make video tapes with time-stopped photography—catch all the important moments."

"When they'll stop hurting like hell. You're an ass. Fine. Don't go with me. You have clinic hours this afternoon anyway."

"I had clinic hours this morning."

"That's what happens when you don't have a team. And you don't have a patient. No team—you lose the excuse that you have to 'teach' them, whatever that means. No patient means no extra time to be in your office brooding. Ergo…"

"Fine. I'll go with you."

"Don't do me any favors."

"I'm not. I'm…" House couldn't really explain why he wanted to go with Cuddy to her appointment. But something told him that he needed to be there.

"Dr. House, I'm Morgan Frawley. Lisa and I have known each other since med school." She extended her hand, which House ignored. House and Cuddy sat in Morgan's large office. House nervously played with his cane handle observing the degrees, citations and awards that decorated the walls along with other evidence of medical success, as Frawley paged through Cuddy's chart. "So, you stopped doing in vitro in March, and stopped the fertility meds in April. Why?"

"What was the point? I'd had one miscarriage and four failures. I figured somebody was trying to tell me something. It was never going to happen, and I decided to stop punishing myself about it." She shrugged, smiling sheepishly at House.

"So this pregnancy was not planned."

"So I'm definitely pregnant."

"Blood test was positive and confirmed the OTC test. You're about four weeks." Morgan sighed. "It wasn't planned. So..you plan on keeping it?" The question was matter-of-fact, House could detect no judgment in her voice. Cuddy stared at the OB in disbelief, her eyes wide.

"Plan on keeping it? Of course I plan on keeping it. What has this last year been all about? This is a gift!"

"You know there are risks…" Cuddy knew this drill; but she knew that Morgan was saying what she needed to say. House would call it "covering her ass." "…lots of them. Starting with 'you're over 40'. That alone carries genetic issues and health issues for both you and the fetus. Then there is the fact that you've already miscarried once in the past year—only eight months ago. So you are high risk from the get-go. I assume you're the father?" She nodded at House, pursing her lips, examining him. He felt as if he were beneath a microscope.

"Lisa, you'll need to be monitored closely. Normally, I would see a patient monthly, but with you, I think every week for now, and then we'll see. I want to schedule an ultrasound at 6 weeks and again when we do a Chorionic Villi sample at 10 weeks. If you have any bleeding or unusual pain anytime, don't try to diagnose it yourself. Call. Even if it's 3 a.m." It'll be fine," she assured them. We just want to make sure it stays that way—for all three of you. My secretary will set up all of your appointments now if you have time. Nice to meet you Dr. House. I've heard a lot about you." House eyed her warily, slightly puzzled. "Nothing bad I assure you."

"What if I don't want CV testing? The risk is…"

"We'll get the results quicker than with amnio, which we would have to wait to do, and then wait weeks longer for the results. At your age, we recommend CV sampling. If there's an issue we can terminate safely and…" Cuddy knew all of this but the idea that two percent miscarried simply from the test did not sit well with her. Of course Morgan was right, and she knew the risk of severe genetic abnormalities was real. Even amnio, though safer, carried its own risks. Cuddy nodded, agreeing, reluctantly. House gingerly took her hand; Cuddy glanced down as House gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. He had never touched her in public before; his touch now, so reassured her of his commitment to her and to this venture.

"Any questions? You're both doctors, so you know a lot about the physiology, but neither of you have been through this before. I know, Lisa that you miscarried earlier this year, and that has to be weighing on you quite heavily now. "Just because you miscarried once doesn't…"

"I know." She sighed. Morgan stood, extending her hand to Cuddy, who took it enthusiastically. Only Morgan noted the slight trembling in her grip.

Their lovemaking that night was different: grave and quiet, filled with possibilities and fears; tender and intimate. Every kiss, every stroke, every move took on a significance that had never before been there as reality took hold.


	9. Chapter 9

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 9

"The nausea is a good thing," Cuddy gasped to herself as she made for the bathroom for the third time in a half hour. House paced the hallway of his apartment waiting, half-hearing what he knew Cuddy was telling herself. It didn't make it easier.

She emerged from House's bathroom, pale, the scent of mouthwash wafted in the air between them as he offered her a glass of ice water. "Thanks."

"Small sips." Cuddy nodded. It had become the routine over the last week as Cuddy hormones kicked into high gear and morning sickness rang in right on schedule. "I suppose that means no more triple espressos in your presence. It seems worse when I'm drinking coffee. It's probably the smell."

"It's fine. The nausea tells me that my body is producing more hormones and that everything's going well. The HCG level…"

"Yeah, Yes. So says the endocrinologist. Therefore you know all 'bout birthin' babies'." Cuddy smiled, feeling better after a few sips of the ice water. House had placed a bowl of raisins on the coffee table as well. He regarded her, examined her, raking his eyes up and down her t-shirt clad body.

"It's not fair, you know. Your boobs are getting bigger every day, and I can only look—not touch."

"They hurt," she pouted. "They feel like 40 pound bags of wet clay and they're sore—and sensitive."

"C'mere. Lean back against me." House adjusted his right leg so that it was propped on the table as he guided Cuddy, settling her close against his chest. "I'm just going to massage. Let me know if it hurts." He placed his large hands on her chest just above her breasts and began kneading. Cuddy sighed as the strained muscles of her chest relaxed; she closed her eyes, leaning further back into House's embrace. House ventured further around, but never onto the more tender areas, waiting as he felt muscles ease beneath his palms and thumbs. He could almost hear Cuddy purr against him.

"This is nice. Thank you." Cuddy understood why Stacy had fallen in love with House and stayed in love with him long past the time she had left him and married Mark Warner. When he wanted to, House could be attentive, romantic and generous. But there was always a part of him, and Cuddy could always see it there lurking in the distance of his nearly-transparent eyes, that was withdrawn and wary; waiting for the other shoe to drop. It seemed less obvious now, but she believed he had simply learned to keep it more well-hidden from her view. She gasped slightly as his hands had reached a particularly tender area. He stopped, not removing his hands, but simply waiting for her to relax.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" House didn't reply to the random question, only kissing the top of her head: a distraction. Then she felt his body tense against hers; his hands remaining strong and gentle as they continued massaging her sore and swollen breasts. Sighing, Cuddy pulled away, turning towards him. "House, talk to me. You're not sleeping; and despite your efforts, I can see that you're taking more Vicodin. Is it your leg?"

House smiled ironically. "Yeah. The leg." It was as good an excuse as any. Yes, the leg hurt more, but then it always did when he wasn't sleeping; and then the pain made it harder to sleep, which ratcheted the pain even more: pacing for eight hours instead of sleeping did seem to have that effect. And normally he would take six Vicodin with a chaser of Makers Mark, which would knock him into oblivion and reset his sleep pattern. It was warped, but it worked somehow. But he didn't want to sleep. Dreaded the thought of it, at least when Cuddy was there. At least when they were at his flat, he could distract himself with the guitar: unplugged, the old Stratocaster was too soft to wake her, even when he did his best Jimmy Hendrix riffs on it. And, it was easier on his leg than wearing a path into the wood flooring. But Cuddy wasn't buying. Any of it.

"Talk to me House."

"There's nothing to say." His hands stopped. "We've been down this road. What's the point of talking when…? He stopped himself. "Like you said: it's the leg. Just up the dosage and wait it out."

"And that's it? What about when…?" She stopped herself as abruptly as he had. What about after the baby is born? What then? "Just up the dosage and wait" isn't going to work. Not then.

"You mean after it's born? That the 'when' you meant to refer to?" He rose, moving Cuddy out of the way while grabbing his cane. His words were bitter, as his defenses, always at the ready, snapped into place. House towered over her coiled and ready to respond to anything she had to say to him. But she said nothing, instead standing close to him and placing her hands on his upper arms; seeking his eyes, finding them and holding them in her gaze; refusing to let go. House blinked first, the tension in his arms giving way to defeat as she stared, unmoving, into his soul--unnerving him, disarming him completely.

"Yes. I meant after it's born. But I don't mean your leg. Or your Vicodin. I meant the talking part." She sat back on the sofa, bringing him with her.

"Like I said, there's nothing…"

"That's bullshit, and you know it."

"Talking doesn't…"

"And you know that from personal experience? Right."I know about the dreams, House. And more than the two times I woke you from them. And that's why you won't sleep when we're together. You need to talk about it."

"I don't…I…" He tried to laugh at her for her over-protectiveness; blame it on her mothering hormones kicked into high gear. "Look. There's nothing. They're just bad dreams. Period. So put your Jung textbook away and leave it alone. You need your sleep and I don't want to wake you up. I'm being solicitous…"

"Yeah. Because that's so like you…" She moved closer, unwilling to let it drop into the void between them, never taking her eyes from his. "House." Her voice softened. "At least tell me what the dreams…"

"Cuddy, you're making this more important than it is. Just leave it alone. Please." She could sense his resolve wearing thin under her unrelenting gaze. She saw his anger at her having brought it up wane and replaced by something else. Fear? House sighed deeply. "Fine. Monsters. Monsters and little boys. Some might say that two are synonymous." The joke fell flat. Cuddy said nothing in response, simply waiting. "I barely remember them when I wake up. Just glimpses. Images. That's why you don't remember them, because they don't make sense. They're just glimpses. Memories…" Cuddy blinked as House slammed down on the thought about to cross his tongue.

"Memories of what?" Her voice was gentle. House faltered, unable to come up with a suitable response. "Your father? I've heard you call out 'dad' in your dreams." House flinched, though only slightly before recovering.

"Yeah. Oh I didn't tell you. I'm really Luke Skywalker; meet my dad Darth Vader. Maybe our kid will a Jedi knight just like..." He stood again, walking painfully to the fireplace, poking the long dead embers with his cane, considering how much to tell her; what she had a right to know. This was not how he had planned to spend his Sunday morning.

Abusive parents breed abusive parents; he knew that, studied it; read about it exhaustively over the past six weeks. And maybe that's why the dreams had gotten worse. And maybe he fell asleep more often in her presence than he believed, and maybe she knew more than she was saying. Had he simply been a donor, a sperm sample, it would have been easy. Her baby, her life. He could be friend and colleague and adversary and spoil the kid rotten and be done with it. But they were "together" and that complicated things. He was "involved." Inextricably involved. Committed to going through with this thing. He could see himself in some of those dreams, now; sometime in the future—a passing shadow; the flicker of an image. He had no patience; no control over his temper or his tongue. He would be a lousy father. So maybe Cuddy deserved to know it before…

House turned back towards Cuddy. She was sitting where she had been, still staring at him, although he had been turned away from her for moments.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said randomly.

"What?" Cuddy sighed, not in the mood for an enigmatic turn to the conversation.

"This. All of this. You, me, domestic bliss…" He hated himself for the words that were about to emerge from his mouth. "Fuck this…" He slammed his cane against the mantle and trudged out the back door, leaving Cuddy alone and incredulous in the flat. She heard the sound of the motorbike's engine catch as a new wave of nausea hit. And was surprised at seeing his reflection in the bathroom mirror, standing at the door with a fresh glass of ice water, as she rinsed the bitter taste of bile from her mouth.

"My father was a marine." House's voice was quiet; a dangerous and desperate whisper as he handed her the glass—a peace offering.


	10. Chapter 10

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 10

House had gotten all the way to the corner before he flashed on an image more horrific than any half-remembered dream about his father. He saw everything he now had with Cuddy shatter into a million shards of glass scattering, his life along with them, into the abyss. And for the first time in many years, he wasn't sure that he really didn't care one way or the other.

"Your father was a marine. I knew that; a pilot, right?" House nodded as Cuddy sat in House's easy chair. She sipped on the ice water as the new wave of morning sickness abated, waiting, watching him nervously pace the room—his eyes everywhere but on her. He knew and expected that she was watching his every move.

House's resolve was quickly fading; he could not do this. The words played in his head, but refused to emerge; evaporating: dry ice on his tongue. He knew it would sound silly, overblown, overly dramatic; Cuddy would dismiss it as the conflated memories of childhood spent with slightly over-strict parents. And probably she would be right.

"My dad loved discipline. It was the marine in him. Somehow my mind latched onto some old and faded, and useless, memory fragments and turned them into nightmares. Maybe it's the pregnancy; maybe it's…I don't know…"

"They started before I was pregnant. How long?"

"A few months. February maybe. They've been around longer than that. As long as I can remember, I guess. But more frequent now."

"When you got out of rehab." A statement. "Tell me about them. The dreams."

"I don't remember much about them. A flash here or there. A dead dog. Lightning. Hearing the trees whistling through a storm. Sleeping in the rain. Ice."

"Ice?"

"Yeah, like when you ice a sore elbow. An ice bath. I told you it was nothing. Just bad memor…dreams."

"You had a nightmare about icing your elbow?" Now she was confused. Her own memory flickered to another time, in the months after the infarction. They had wanted to ice his leg during his rehab from the surgery. He'd hated the idea. Refused the treatment in PT; wouldn't allow his leg to be submerged in the ice bath. They'd ended up sedating him. "I thought the dreams were about your father. Ice sounds more like your leg. You hated the idea…"

Was that right, he wondered? Was his mind confusing one set of horrors with another? "No. I was six or seven, I think. I can't even remember exactly…but I think they started when I was around six. Maybe seven."

Were these dreams or memories? Real memories that House was trying to explain to her? Cuddy wasn't sure. "In your dream?" House nodded, deep in thought, barely aware of her presence, but acutely aware of it on some level, at the same time. "Your dad gave you an ice bath. Were you sick? Running a fever, because…"

She was trying to make sense out of what House was saying. "No. I wasn't sick. Although he thought so. 'Lying is a sickness,' he'd say. 'Have to cure it before it gets out of hand. Make you a lifetime liar.' Maybe he was right. Who knows?"

"What did he do?" House closed his eyes, not wanting to see the image again; talk about it. It changed nothing. He shook his head.

"Like I said…they're just vague memories, mostly… But the ice baths…yeah. Those I remember…lots of fun….those. It would start off easy enough. Cold water…no different than getting in the base swimming pool. But then came the ice. Bags of it. Must've had a freezer in the crawl space just for his supply of it. It was always ready." House's faraway voice was tinged with anger and a sad bitterness. "He'd just keep pouring them out one on top of the other. Real fun when the ice starts sticking to your genitals, even when you're a little kid."

"You were nude? House…that's child abuse." She was horrified, she couldn't keep the tears from moistening her eyes. "You were six when he started doing it? Where was your mom?" Cuddy looked at him in shock.

"She was the typical housewife of the time. Her husband knew best. Had to purge the lies out of little Greg before…I'd hear her lock the door to the bedroom. Then I'd hear the TV turned up loudly. I… Stupid, huh? Ice baths. So what? Forty something years later and I'm still… Pretty ridiculous to still be dreaming about that after… Anyway, eventually he stopped. I got tall and the bathtubs were all pretty small."

"What replaced the ice baths?" Cuddy tried to keep her voice even. She wanted to hold him; to tell him that what his father did was not what fathers do to their six year old children; not to their 10 year old children.

"Typical stuff, I guess. It wasn't really that bad, and I probably deserved most of it anyway. I told you it was useless to talk about it."

House shook his head. "He hated it when anyone lied. About anything. It didn't matter if it was a little lie or a real whopper. In his book it really didn't matter." He was talking almost to himself, his voice was so quiet and grave. "And he always knew. Or my mother did."

"You said that you hated your parents. I remember. When they came into town a couple of years ago…"

"I don't hate my mom. I hate my dad. I only ever wanted to do the right thing. I guess I never quite did." He turned suddenly towards Cuddy, sitting opposite her on the sofa, gingerly putting his leg up on a pillow, but not really acknowledging her nearby presence. "And he was a pillar of the community—wherever that was. So I guess he was right." House shook off a thought, realizing suddenly that there was someone else in the room.

"What replaced the ice baths? You had to have been old enough to remember."

"His fists, I guess. Butt of his sidearm. I tried, Cuddy; tried so hard to be right; to do the right thing—what he wanted—what he said he wanted. But I never measured up. Guess I never have… God, that sounds morose."

"He abused a young child and then a teenager. This had nothing to do with 'measuring up.' You have to know that. It's obvious to anyone who would hear…"

"How do I know that? How do I know that what I imagine; what I dream in those nightmares isn't some trumped up vision of an evil father—Darth House? My justification for all things—for hating him. What if it's not true?"

"What if it is? House you were abused. Physically, emotionally…"

"Then what the hell sort of a father will I be?"

"I've seen you with kids…you're…especially the victims…sick kids; kids whose parents brutalize them. As much of an ass as I've seen you be with adults, you couldn't be better with kids." She didn't mean to sound as desperate, but she had to make him believe that it would be fine. For them, for their child.

"They're not my kid. And not at three a.m. when we're both exhausted, and my leg won't cooperate; and I'm in the middle of an impossible case. Like I said, maybe this isn't right. Maybe…"

"Don't go there, House. Don't say it. Don't even think it. You will be fine. We'll be fine. There's no rule book for parenting. No textbook with parameters and simple symptoms to diagnose. It's pretty much trial and error…just your style. You aren't your father, House. Have you ever talked to anyone about this? Does Wilson know?"

"No. Not really. No, I've never told Wilson any of this. And I would ask that this go no further. That's all he needs. He already thinks he's a master psychoanalyst. The leading expert on Dr. Gregory House. He'd go nuts, so to speak."

"You should. Speak to someone: a professional. You mean that in all the therapy with Catherine Harrington , it never came up?" House shook his head.

"Told a stranger once. Someone I was never going to see again. She needed to hear it more than I needed to not talk about it." House was exhausted. He hadn't slept in over a day and the conversation was wearing thin. "I need to sleep," he offered suddenly.

"Do you want me to go?" House considered her offer for a moment.

"No. Stay. Come back to bed with me." Cuddy nodded, going to him and slipping an arm around his waist as they made their way into his bedroom. She held him as he slept. He looked peaceful to her, his features relaxed, for now. But she wondered how long it would last, this peacefulness. He had trusted her with his scariest and most terrible secret.

Cuddy felt slightly guilty for nearly forcing him to talk about it; but believing he did want to share his burden only needing her nudging. Talking "about it" was what the textbooks said and med school professors insisted was "the right thing." But House had been unconvinced with Eve, the rape victim he had treated earlier in the year. "what if," he had asked with grave eyes, "What if all we've done was to make a girl cry?" Her tears caught in her throat reflecting back on House's words that day. Was she the stranger he had shared his horror with? She wondered about it as she watched him sleep.

A/N Catherine Harrington appeared both in No Exit and Transitions, which took place right during House's rehab and One Day/One Room. She was his therapist during No Exit and he spoke with her during Transitions. This story exists in the same universe as those stories did.


	11. Chapter 11

"At six weeks, real-time ultrasound should identify embryonic cardiac activity. Heart rates slower than 120 beats per minute or that speed up or slow down could signal trouble. The chorionic sac should measure about 16 mm; a sac of that size with no heartbeat is not a good sign. A study of 316 singleton pregnancies in women with a history of infertility found a miscarriage rate of about 20 when the chorionic sac was seen at 5 weeks' gestation. At 6 weeks, the miscarriage rate dropped to 7 if cardiac activity was identified but climbed to 30 if cardiac activity was not evident."

Cuddy's six week ultrasound was scheduled for 2:00. House was making notes in the margin of the article as he read it to Cuddy before transferring them to a small lab notebook in a meticulous hand. "You know I can read a scan too," he whined. "And we have a real-time ultrasound scanner; more than one in fact." Cuddy smiled at House's impatience; she was glad that they had withstood House's disclosure of the day before and he seemed no worse for wear. "We can even still go see your friend the OB, but I'd like to do my own…"

"What part of 'no' do you fail to understand. The hospital is not your personal playground. This is too important; besides, won't it seem a little suspicious for the two of us to go skulking into an exam room and boot up the scanner. NO. And 'no' means 'NO' and not maybe; not we'll see; not we'll negotiate. If nothing else, I can't afford to be seen… You can come with, you know…"

"Yeah, next you'll tell me it's a little suspicious for the dean of medicine and the director of diagnostics to go driving off in the middle of the day. Together, I might add. Fine."

"Well, if you're gonna sulk, do it in your office. Or better still, in the clinic." House sighed, making his way to his own office. Cuddy could barely surpress a smile before getting down to business. She put her feet up on her desk, doing her morning check; insisting that it wasn't paranoia, but simple common sense. Morning sickness—check. Sore boobs—check. Tired at 11 a.m. and wishing like hell she could take a nap—check. Although that she could attribute to four a.m. sex. Slight rounding of her usually flat stomach—check. Everything seemed in order. She had resisted the temptation to do daily HCG blood levels on herself, chalking up that idea to "future mother with raging hormones syndrome." She had miscarried at 6 weeks the last time, and part of her dreaded the afternoon's appointment with Morgan.

"Why are you reading Williams Obstetrics? And highlighting…" Wilson was standing at House's desk. House nearly jumped from his seat as he struggled for a suitable cover story.

"Paper. I'm finishing that paper on the fetal surgery we did last spring. That photographer with fetal mirror syndrome."

"Good cover, but no. I thought you finished that article. You were proofing the galleys three weeks ago. You asked me how to spell…something or other…"

"Still proofing. Don't want to get any of my facts wrong. Found an omission, or thought I did, just fact checking." He closed the heavy volume with a flourish. "There. Done. Fact checked. No omission after all. Good thing, too since I sent the galleys back two days ago. That would have been sooo embarassing."

"Right. So what's up with you and Cuddy."

"What d'you mean?"

"Up. As in 'how's it going?' Everything OK?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" What did Wilson want to know? House wondered briefly if he suspected something "was up." "Sunshine and flowers; Belgian truffles. Great." It sounded more sarcastic than he'd intended. But if it kept Wilson off the scent, so much the better. "Why? You miss taking her to art shows and the theatre? I'm not the sort to share, Wilson. So hands off." Wilson rolled his eyes. House smiled, an uncharacteristic mirth in his eyes; he leaned far back in his desk chair, propping his long legs on the desk.

"She that good? In bed, I mean." The question was almost shy. A guy-question.

"Uh-uh. Sorry, I do NOT kiss and tell…"

"Yes you do. Even with Stacy…" Wilson's eyes widened. "You're in love with her."

"Forget it Wilson."

"You are so busted. Does she know?" Wilson's voice was a conspiratorial whisper; a truth uncovered to be cherished and exploited.

"Fuck you, Wilson. What is this, Junior High study hall? We gonna start passing notes next? Look, I've got to go." House peered dramatically at his wristwatch. "Time for lunch."

"With Cuddy?"

"Actually not with Cuddy. Actually, I forgot, it's your turn to buy."

"It's always 'my turn' to buy."

"Point taken. Chicken fried steak's on the menu. My personal favorite. Let's go before the gravy congeals." House popped a Vicodin, chasing it with a gulp of Fiji water. Wilson silently noted the effort required for House to stand steadily.

Wilson had to admit that PPTH's chicken fried steak was as good as any truck-stop's would be, not that he'd ever had much experience with truck stops, but still, it was pretty good. "How's the leg been?"

"Can we talk about something that doesn't require deep analysis of either 1—my love life, 2—my leg?"

"OK.."

"Or my as-yet-to-be-completely-assembled team."

"I thought…It was a done deal. We met them…" It always amused House to see Wilson baffled and have that bafflement turn to sheer dismay.

"Well a lot can happen between June and September…or was that May and December…I always get that mixed up some how." Point and Match. "Relax. It'll all work out…"

"Was it a scam?" A dawning horror crept into Wilson's eyes.

"Oh, don't look so disappointed…" House's smirk transformed into a beatific smile. Wilson blew out a breath not knowing what to believe, except that Cuddy would be pissed to find out the whole team thing was a scam. And there would go their relationship right on cue. House at his self-destructive best.

House was enjoying Wilson's stunned outrage, having had the desired effect of training the conversation away from the realm of the personal.

"You know she's going to kill you. Or fire you…or both." House shrugged, a smug expression plastered on his face.

"She will not."

"It's your funeral, House."

"OK, gotta go. This time for real." The cafeteria clock read one o'clock. "Important meeting. Wouldn't want to miss it." Wilson watched House leave, again noting an increased difficulty in his gait. He shook his head, anticipating the impending disaster.

Cuddy looked up from her desk to find House standing there, watching her fidget with her pen, her phone; seemingly everything on her desk. She smiled at him, slightly embarrassed. "It's ridiculous. Really. Look at my hand; it's actually shaking…. You ready?"

"Want me to drive?"

"I'd rather not take…"

"Your car. I'll drive."

"Am I that pathetic?"

"In a word? Yes."

"Gee thanks." She sighed as a second passed in silence. House's eyes raked over her as she stood. "What?" She watched House silently watching her, sending a thrill down her spine.

"Damn. You are one beautiful woman." Cuddy rolled her eyes at the mirth in his voice.

"Yeah, right. I'm a real joy. I'm sore and I spend half the day in the bathroom…for one thing or another. And I'm not even into my second trimester. Let's see if you still play that tune in six months."

"Doesn't matter. Hey, for all you know, given my well-deserved reputation as a jerk, when you hit six months, I could decide that your ass has gotten too big even for me. I could…"

"Fine." She said, growing immediately indignant, her eyes turning cold. "Then go now. Make it easy on us both." He had pushed too far, and he knew it.

"Cuddy…look." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I would not…"

"I know you would not… I know you better than you think I do. And I'm learning more each day. My bullshit meter could not be in finer repair. I trust you, House. Completely with this. And however it turns out between us in the end…" House placed his free arm around Cuddy's back, drawing her to him.

"Hey. It's going to be OK." He kissed her softly on the lips, her eyes closing briefly at the sensation before realizing how easily they could be seen through the glass doors of her office. House's simple gesture, tenderly offered left her speechless. She nodded, pulling away and leading him out the door.

They rode in silence, with Cuddy at the wheel, House massaging her neck with firm pressure, working on the tension gathered there. They arrived at Morgan's office, signing in and taking their place in the waiting room.

"Dr. Frawley is all ready for you, Dr. Cuddy." She sighed deeply, readying herself. House took her hand silently as they adjourned to the exam room.

Morgan swept in a few moments later, opening Cuddy's chart as she sat on the small stool. "Lisa, Dr. House." She nodded. "We ready?" Cuddy nodded. "Good."

"This is a real-time ultrasound. It's amazing the detail we can see even at six weeks…it's…"

"I think you can skip the infomercial. We both know how they work and what they can do." Cuddy glared at House before looking apologetically toward Morgan.

"Dr. House can wait outside, Morgan, if…"

"No. It's fine," she smiled. "He's right. Busted, I guess. Of course you're familiar with them… I only…"

"We had a case last spring, Morgan, where the real time scanner was immensely helpful…"

"No problem. You know what to do Lisa." Another nod as House rose, turning away impatiently. He turned back when he heard the familiar "whoosh, whoosh" of the machine. "I'm looking for the heartbeat. It will show up just as a flashing on the screen. Right….there." She pointed to a dot on the monitor, blinking like the cursor on a computer screen.

Cuddy watched with fascination at the dot, mesmerized by its motion. "How fast….?"

"One-fifty," House interrupted before Morgan could respond. Cuddy scowled at him, as Morgan glanced back at him, impressed.

"Not bad, Dr. House. I could use a new tech. You're almost as good as my last one." Cuddy smiled approvingly. House approached the monitor, squinting into the image, peering.

"Six weeks. Right on the head. Maybe six and a day or two. Looks good. Want a still for the memory book? Not much to see, but… Lisa, I need to get bloodwork, BP, etcetera, etcetera, but I knew you'd want to see this first. Your BP reading will be much more reasonable now. Much lower." Cuddy laughed at having been so obviously anxious.

House had been quiet since leaving Morgan's office, distanced, peering out into the distance on the ride back to the hospital. They pulled back into the PPTH lot and into the space reserved for the Dean of Medicine. "Hey, you OK?" Cuddy's voice startled House slightly, causing his to gasp.

"Sorry. Yeah." More staring.

"We're here," she said louder, as he finally snapped from the mood.

"Right. Sorry. Cuddy, did you see… I think I could make out the head, maybe a foot…" His voice was distant, almost dreamy. Cuddy smiled, drawing his face toward her.

"It's pretty incredible, huh, House? Whether you choose to call it a baby or a fetus. It ours. It's real; it's alive." House turned away, embarrassed at the emotions he was feeling. He simply nodded, exiting the car. Cuddy walked slightly ahead, giving him space.

"Wait." She turned back towards him, stopping; letting him catch up to her. "Cuddy. It's beautiful, you know," he said simply, gravely. "Just like ITS mother," he concluded, recovering. He risked one more kiss, sealing something between them: a covenant.

"HER mother. High heart rate; it's a girl."

"Old wives' tales! Beneath you, oh vaunted Dean. Wait till your head of obstetrics hears this!" Cuddy slapped his arm affectionately.

"Careful, House, I saw that look of awe and wonderment on your face in the exam room. I could so out you…!"

"It wasn't awe. Or wonder. Or even more than academic interest. Her monitor is all scratched up. That look of awe you saw was my trying to see between the scratches."

"Right." They drew apart and went back into the hospital.


	12. Chapter 12

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 12

"You go on to bed Cuddy, I think I'm going to play a little while."

"Mind if I listen?" House shrugged his shoulders as he rose from the sofa. She observed him; his gait was so much less steady these days; the pain so much more apparent on his face. House had been quieter, more distant since the ultrasound earlier in the week. Second thoughts, even third thoughts, she was certain reverberated through House's mind and heart.

The piece meandered from minor to major and back; jazz with melismatic flourishes that would have made Mozart sigh. It was intricate and elegant, ambivalently wandering nowhere and back again. "What is it?"

"Nothing. A little of this; a little of that. Nothing." He was restless, she knew. Cuddy approached and sat on the bench next to him; his leg stuttering, out of rhythm with the piece and tapping anxiously on the wood floor. He stopped playing.

"No." He had misunderstood the question. "What is it? What's wrong?" House looked at her, gazing into her eyes, trying to convey his uncertainty; his doubts; his fear. She looked merely bewildered.

"This is real now. Not a game; not a fantasy…I don't know… How the hell does this work now? Do we get married, buy that house with the picket fence that you and I both know I will bolt from at the first possible opportunity? What? How the hell am I supposed to be a partner in this? A father? Something I vowed long ago to myself I would never, ever become?" The worlds spilled out, leaking past House's best efforts to stop them; to prevent Cuddy from hearing them.

"We've been through this, House." She was trying to be reassuring as she touched his right elbow. He forcefully jerked away from her touch, nearly toppling from the bench.

"No, actually, we haven't. Not really. Yeah, you said some things about the 'sins of the fathers,' but it's not just that. I've never…" Cuddy's eyes hardened.

"You want out of this? Fine. Just let me know soon, because with you or without you, this is happening. I just want to know where you deign to fit in here. As far as I see it, this baby is a gift, a miracle, even, if you believe in that sort of stuff. This isn't something that either of us bargained for, but there's no way in Hell that I'm ending it. You want out, that's fine by me. As far as anyone has to know, this was a last ditch in vitro attempt and you're a sperm donor—or it was anonymous. Your choice as to which is to be the 'official' story. Frankly I don't really care which. We can continue this 'friends with benefits' routine as long as my doc thinks it's OK and then it's over. After this child is born, if it's born, I'm not going to have a hell of a lot of time for a casual affair. So, whether it's J-Date or or whatever, I'm gonna be looking for someone who'll be there to…" Cuddy stopped mid-sentence, realizing how harsh she was sounding. She was giving House an ultimatum that she had no right to give him. This wasn't his fault; none of it. He had wanted to find a condom that night, and she had told him…

"That what this is? Friends with benefits?" The words were spat bitterly, but his eyes were devastated, hurt. "Do you think that's what this is about? Because…" His voice was raised, dangerous. Cuddy backed away, standing. She absolutely didn't think it, even if she had said it. Despite her best efforts, she had fallen in love with House. For all of his faults, for all of his insecurities, he was a brilliant, sensitive and beautiful man: none of it conventional, and all of it very, very real in her eyes. She had only hoped to have given him an out; an opportunity—maybe his last—to get out of it gracefully before they were both caught in a relationship that could not be escaped.

"No." It was a whisper as her eyes filled with tears at the despair in his watchful gaze. "House," she began, her voice trembling and teary. "I'm prepared to do this alone. I always have been; you know that. If you want to be part of that, it would mean…it would be…it would be beyond anything I might have imagined. But it's not something you 'have' to do; not something I'm compelling you to do…"

"Like clinic hours?" His lips quirked into a sad smile, causing Cuddy to likewise smile through her tears. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

"…It is, however, something we do have to figure out. We hadn't calculated a child into the equation when we began this. My sense, when I was trying for all that time to conceive, was to find a guy at some point who would want, or at least didn't mind, a ready-made family. I like sex; I like men. But I need someone who not only likes me, but wants a family; not just sex…or not just me and sex. House, we can still back away from this; it's not too late. I get to keep the kid, and we don't end up hating each other—or ruining the life of an innocent third party."

What she said made sense to House; he was impressed with her objectivity and her reasoning. Cuddy took his hand, leading him to the sofa; he looked everywhere but into her face. When, he wondered suddenly, had he fallen in love with her? When had, not events, but his own heart, made it impossible to end his relationship with her.

"I remembered something earlier this week; a couple of days ago. A flashback; something. But it was concrete enough that I…there was a hospital name; an event…I was about eight, I think—eight or nine; maybe seven. Not sure. My birthday. He had left me in the ice too long; I…I was in the hospital…I remembered doctors and nurses; something about hypothermia, burns…a terrible burning feeling…frostbite? I don't know…"

"And children don't get hypothermia in June…" she inserted. "I think you're processing this stuff because of the baby; but if it's something concrete, something you can verify as true and not some conflated set of memory fragments, maybe…"

"Maybe I can begin to deal with it?" House looked at his watch, talked out and restless; Cuddy had dark circles beneath her reddened eyes. "You need some sleep. Cuddy," he began, reverting to the previous conversation, "I don't want to back away. I want this; I want you. As far as the baby is concerned, it is what it is. I frankly don't know if I have it within me to be a real father to any kid; but I also know that I can't give you up…"

Cuddy smiled wanly as she let go of his hand and made her way down the hall to his bedroom. "I love you too," she whispered just beyond his hearing.

House heard the soft creak of his bed as Cuddy curled up within the blankets, finally going to sleep. He logged into his computer, Googling his father's name, finding the information he sought. Captain John D. House, Edwards Air Force Base, 1965-1971. Vietnam tour August 1966-August 1968. House would have been seven in 1966, when his dad left for a two-year stint.

To House's mind, Antelope Valley Hospital was the most likely place he would have been treated, if he father hadn't wanted to avoid the inevitable questions he might have been asked had he gone to the base hospital. House glanced at his watch; it was only 9:30 p.m. in California…"

"How would I go about getting into hospital archive files?" He asked the question, in his most charming voice, of the night librarian at the large medical center. "Right. I'm at Princeton; doing research on…no I don't know if…" He cast an eye towards the bedroom. Good question she asked. Were they part of the same research consortium? He briefly thought of waking Cuddy and then thought better of it. "What if I said yes? Right… What's the URL? You've been a big help. Thanks." What was it they said? That you could find out practically anything about anybody on the internet? Now, it would only be too easy if…

Forty-five minutes later, House was in the Antelope Valley file system. "For research purposes only." Right. They were scanned files; names blacked out. "Inclusive dates: January 1965-December 1975," read the archive title. He searched the archive home page for some sort of filtering system so he could at least filter out some of the thousands of patient records in his search. He was only looking for one needle in this vast haystack. It took fifteen minutes to locate the search feature, which wasn't really so much a search feature as category dump. Better than nothing, he thought. He recalled "hypothermia", typing in the term and filtering the files to June and July of 1966. Nothing. House sat back, staring at the screen, hands poised on the keys as he tried to reason through the hospital's filing system. "Pediatrics: June/July 1966, admissions," he typed. "Hits: 200," read back the computer. House sighed, getting somewhere, although he couldn't quite fathom where that somewhere was.

House thought of typing in "Edwards AFB," but then determined that his father, if he'd wanted to keep it quiet enough to go off-base would not have given that info to the hospital admissions desk. "Frostbite" he typed.

"Hits: 15," replied the screen. House hit the "view records" button and waited as PDF files appeared on the computer monitor. House gasped at the first file: "June 11, 1966. Male; seven years old—birdthdate June 11, 1959. Brought into ER with frostbite to lower extremities, lower back and genital area. Body temperature of 91 degrees Farenheit upon exam. Brought in by father, Mr. xxxxxxxxxxx. Father reports that the boy tripped and fell into icy water vat used to cool soft drinks and beer at family birthday party for boy. Boy was missing for an hour before the father went looking for him, finding him shivering and cold. Examined boy for other injuries. None noted. Frostbite is very minor. Will admit to bring up body temperature and observe over night." House continued reading.

"June 12, 1966. Patient refuses to talk; will not describe events that caused frostbite and lowered body temperature. Otherwise in good spirits; curious about machinery, medicine and treatment. Recommend discharge for tomorrow."

"June 13, 1966. Discharge notes: patient seems fine, frostbite resolved with no further treatment; temperature back within normal range; no damage from exposure observable. Discharged 11:00 a.m. June 13, Dr. Phillip Green."

House had been sitting at the computer screen for more than an hour. "Dr. Phillip Green." House wondered if forty years after the fact, Dr. Phillip Green would even be alive, much less remember a seven year old patient, even if he did have hypothermia and frostbite in the middle of summer in the California Desert. "Thank you Lord for Google," House mused as he typed in the name of the doctor along with the hospital name.

"This is Dr. Green." House was impressed. A doctor who answered on the first ring. Cool.

"Dr. Green. My name is Dr. Gregory House. I…"

"From Hopkins?" House was confused by the question.

"From Princeton. I went to med school at Hopkins, but…"

"You're the ID guy. Wrote a great textbook on diagnosing mutated pediatric infectious diseases…"

"Well, it was a long time ago, and there were 14 or 15 other authors, but, yeah. That's me. I was calling…"

"Fabulous book. I still use it. What is it now…15 years since…"

"Something like that…I…" House sighed as Green interrupted again.

"To what do I owe this honor?"

"I was wondering. You were affiliated with Antelope Valley Hospital back in the mid 60s?"

"Yes, I…"

"Good. Then I have the right Phillip Green. This is going to seem like a ridiculous question," House began, feeling somewhat ridiculous himself, after the buildup. "Do you recall…? There was a patient…a kid you treated in 1966…"

"That was my first year at Antelope Valley. I had just finished my peds residency at Illinois. It was my first real job…"

"This was June. Kid had frostbite…"

"Jeez. How could I ever forget that one? One of my first patients there. But why…?"

"What do you remember about the case. Tell me anything. Family, anything out of place…"

"Well, frostbite in June in the desert is pretty out of place for starters. I couldn't say for sure, but I think the kid was a military brat. Maybe air force, something, anyway, like from the base. I thought that it was odd…I assumed the father was some sort of military…the way he talked, his demeanor, the way he carried himself…maybe a fighter jock…anyway. I thought it was odd that he didn't take the kid to the base hospital. Given that the kid was barely conscious. I would have called an ambulance. Kid was quiet. I do remember that. Had these big searching eyes; real blue—almost scary how wary they were, like he was expecting us to do something to him…I don't know…like I said, it was forty years ago. Kid had frostbite on his genitals. Gotta wonder, especially given what we know nowadays…"

"What?" House urged, mesmerized.

"I think daddy was hurting his little boy. Big time. Funny you should call about this case now. I had a case couple of months ago. Kid nearly died from hypothermia when a parent used an made his kid sit in ice to punish her; mom fell asleep; kid was too scared to get out herself. Body temp had gotten down to 87, when dad came home, called 911. I thought about that case back in the day. Wondered about that kid in '66. You writing another book, Dr. House?"

"No. I…." Suddenly, House was embarrassed to have gotten Green to talk under false pretenses. "No, it's personal…I mean…I. That kid? In '66? I think…never mind… Look thank you for your time, Dr. Green."

"It was you, wasn't it? I remember the name now. The family name. House. I'm…Dr. House, I don't know what to say…I had no way…I'm so sorry…" Fuck. There it was. The fucking pity. House heard it in Green's voice seeping around the edges of his words. House was no longer "Dr. Gregory House," famous doctor. He was that kid, the abuse victim. He hung up the phone, looking at his hand, feeling it tremble as he felt anxiety seep from his back as a cold sweat drenched his tee-shirt. His dad had left for 'Nam a convenient two months later. The fucking bastard. House stood up too fast, and crumpling to the floor, as he lost his balance, simply sat on there on the rug, dimly contemplating past, present and future. "How the hell am I going to do this?" he wondered as he shakily rose and made his way towards the bathroom.


	13. Chapter 13

Sons and Lovers 13

A/N: Sorry this took me so long, folks. Commitments to the Cuddy Fest (which make sure you stop by there and visit) and Real Life conspired to make this chapter a bit difficult to finish. But it's done. One more chapter after this and that should do it for this story and bring us back into canon for the season's start.

This was a very personal chapter for me to write (as will the next one be) as I've drawn from my own experience much more than I normally would for fanfiction, but there it is. Hope you enjoy it.

Funny thing about morning sickness is that when it finally goes away, you don't notice it. And then suddenly one day, you realize that it's simply no longer there. The constant supply of ice water, raisins and small bits of bread no longer form the staple ingredients of your morning's repast. It signals the beginnings of the second trimester. Twelve weeks and counting.

"Breakfast. I want a real breakfast. Pancakes, maple syrup. The works. And coffee." House quirked an eyebrow, amused, as he eyed Cuddy from his side of the bed. "OK, so decaf coffee." Cuddy stretched, ignoring the glass of water, nearly knocking it off the nightstand, and the small bowl of raisins. Her hand came to rest on her abdomen as House watched with bemusement.

"You do realize that even though that quickly spreading middle is screaming for fat, sugar and starch, you'll regret it in…" House peered dramatically at his wristwatch. "…half an hour."

"No, I'm not nauseous. Haven't been in…I don't know…two, three days….? But I am starving. It's Sunday morning, and neither one of us has to be at the hospital."

"What about…what's-her-name…Mrs…."

"Your patient? Transferred last night to Wilson's service. You were right. Ovarian cancer…just a rare presentation. Everyone missed it. All her doctors. Six months bounced from doctor to doctor and no one put it together."

"Yeah, well, sometimes too much information is just…too much information. Sometimes you have to take two steps back to see the obvious pattern. Too fucking bad she's going to…" He didn't have to finish. She knew House's point. And House knew that she knew. Six months of posturing and trying to fit something that didn't into a perfectly rectangular box. Delays and politics; turf wars and conventional thinking condemned her to almost certain death.

"Seurat," Cuddy inserted, changing the subject. House nodded. "Or you." That analogy, he didn't quite get; he shrugged.

"Take the individual pieces of the Gregory House mosaic and examine them and you come up with the same picture every time: arrogant, egotistical, narcissistic jerk…"

"Oh please, I'm blushing from all the compliments. Besides, Seurat didn't do mosaics. He was a pointillist."

"Whatever. But then," she continued, refusing to take the bait. "If you stand back and look, really look through all the little disparate points…"

"It's not…" House began to protest, waving his hand dismissively.

"Whatever. Pancakes. Now. " House leaned into Cuddy's abdomen, putting his ear to her still relatively flat belly.

"It hasn't started kicking yet."

"Hey, I'm not the least bit interested in trying to feel the sensation of some non-living being aggressively kicking my ear? That's just sick. I simply like doing this." Cuddy sank back into the pillow, bemused until House started planting small but significant kisses around her navel. He was arousing her unmercifully. He moved up and Cuddy instinctively tensed as he neared her breasts, which had been exquisitely tender and painful since about day two. House always tried to remember, but when instinct and male hormone overtook reason as he coveted her rapidly enlarging boobs, he sometimes forgot. It was better when she was wearing a bra. But this particular morning she was not. He brushed against them, which ordinarily sent angry tendrils of pain through the engorged tissue. Realizing the misstep, House stopped. "Sorry," he apologized sheepishly. "You shouldn't let them out like that, you know. It's like waving a red cape at a bull and I…"

"House, do that again." Cuddy sat upright, a chill running through her suddenly.

"I thought…""Just do it again. Touch my breast." It was a command, devoid of the playfulness they had been sharing only moments before. Now House sat up, curious and concerned.

"Are you OK?"

"Just do it." She readied, tensing expectantly. She took his arm roughly and placed it on her right breast. Nothing. No tenderness. No ache. Just the flat sensation of House's hand laying there. Cuddy's eyes moistened as she lay back against the pillow, turning away.

"What?"

"It didn't hurt. No tenderness. It's gone." House knew what she was thinking.

"I thought that was a good thing. Pain is generally NOT a desired sensation. Unless you go in for that sort of…"

"House. It shouldn't 'just disappear.'"

"Second trimester, Cuddy. All bad things come to an end. Pancakes for breakfast, I get to finally fondle those luscious melonous mammaries, which I have to say have been very, very hard to resist…and I have been making the effort because I know they're sore. But now they're not. so…" He leaned in, trying to distract her from this line of thought. Cuddy pulled away suddenly, getting out of the bed.

House watched her, slightly exasperated, as she paced, relentlessly tidying. "If you're that concerned, call your OB." She stopped fidgeting long enough to glare at him. "I'm serious."

"You know what she'll say."

"She'll say what I said. And add that you have an appointment Tuesday. And the CV sampling."

"House. I'm not an idiot. I know…"

"I never said you were. And you're an endocrinologist, so you probably know down to the nanogram how much HCG you have coursing around in your veins. But you've also had a miscarriage in the last year. And you're worried about…" Cuddy's eyes filled with tears, hating to appear weak in front of him. She turned away, concerning herself with the contents of his bookcase.

"Of course I'm worried. Don't you think that after a year of hearing my body talk to me, I know every symptom? Every pang, every twinge, every fucking ache and pain…or lack of it?"

"But you're not objective. Those symptoms can mean…."

"What? That everything's fine? That it's simply that I've finished my first trimester? I know that explanation, but I'm a realist."

"Pessimist. There's a difference."

"I've been here before."

"Not at 12 weeks. You just had an ultrasound. Wednesday. We saw the heart beating. The Doppler even picked it up. 160 beats per minute. Do you know what the likelihood of a miscarriage is after picking up a heart beat at 12 weeks? Your doc said the fetus size was normal; amniotic fluid was normal. HCG was normal. All systems go."

"Eleven plus."

"Fine. Not quite twelve weeks. The chance for a miscarriage after 11 weeks and a normal heart beat, etc. is four percent."

"Statistics are so reassuring when you're one of the four percent." This was a pointless argument and they both knew it. Both of them tended to overintellectualize. House threw up his hands in frustration.

"You're not going to call your doctor, because you're embarrassed." He wagged his finger at her pointedly, but with mild amusement. "But you're also going to be impossible to be with until Tuesday. Which means no sex, no getting to take advantage of those not-sore melons of yours. Do you know your serum HCG from your last appointment?"

"Yeah, 135,000. She sends me an email with a copy of the labs."

"It's Sunday. Clinic should be quiet…"

"Not that you would know." She smiled slightly at what he was suggesting. For House, it was borderline romantic.

"You do realize, however, that your serum HCG drops now anyway. So unless it's a big drop…"

"I AM an endocrinologist, House. I do know something about hormones and pregnancy."

"Yeah. You have said that. You're just not an objective one." They dressed quietly and drove the short distance to the hospital from House's apartment.

"Dr. Cuddy!" The receptionist was startled by the appearance of the Dean. On a Sunday. Dressing in jeans and an oversized tee-shirt. "It's Sunday. What are you….?"

"Quick consult with Dr. House and I'm out of here," she responded more curtly than she intended. House was waiting for her at the elevator.

"That'll start the rumors flying. Quick consult? You should wear jeans to work more often, Dr. Cuddy. But you'd have to avoid the cardiac care unit, of course."

"Yeah. I look great in these. I can barely zip them, much less button the top button..." She paused, realizing that if her worst fears were realized that wouldn't be an issue for long. "Let's go." The elevator stopped, but the doors didn't open. "Fucking great. What's wrong with the…?"

"Me. I stopped it."

"House, what the hell do you think…?" She was ready, rolling her eyes, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. The grand romantic gesture. It fit him somehow as he stood there half looking like a tall and awkward Humphrey Bogart, minus the fedora, his eyes wide and uncertain.

"I need to say something. And you need to listen." It had been impulse that caused House to halt the elevator between floors. Now that he'd done it, he wasn't quite sure what to say or do. Several things came to mind, but they all felt like platitudes while waiting poised to emerge from his lips. What could he say? "It doesn't matter what the result is?" "We hadn't planned this anyway, so, blah, blah, blah?" There was nothing he could say that might soften the blow if she was right. So he kept silent, instead nervously grinding his cane into the carpeted floor of the elevator.

"Don't fucking tell me it doesn't matter. Don't feed me platitudes or endearments like 'we'll try again.' It doesn't suit you. And I'm not that pathetic that I need to hear it. Now push the damn button before security…" She walked to the corner of the elevator, as far from House as possible as he restarted the elevator."

"Shouldn't your new fellows be starting next week?" It was September, and House had set their start date weeks ago. House ignored the question fidgeting with the key to his office door.

"I need to go back down to the clinic and grab some supplies. You gonna be OK?" His solicitousness unnerved her. He suspected the same thing she did now that he'd had the chance to think about it; she was certain. House led her to the Eames chair.

"House, I'm not some…"

"Feet up. Back in a minute." It was the first time she'd been alone since morning. Her hand went instinctively to her breasts, pinching, willing them to show the least little bit of tenderness. Anywhere. She wasn't spotting. No cramping. She put herself through all of the early symptoms of miscarriage. Just the breasts. But what if the lack of nausea…? Cuddy took several deep breaths willing herself to not tear up. She'd know it was probably too good to be true, and maybe it was better this way. If the unthinkable… A baby would complicate their relationship, not enhance it. House was so badly damaged from his own childhood, how could she even think that he….?

House entered, interrupting Cuddy's thoughts. "I come bearing needles, vacutainers and alcohol, though not necessarily in that order." He applied the tourniquet, palpated and located a vein quickly. "On the plus side, pregnancy does make the veins pop out." House took the sample expertly, painlessly. "I'll run this down to the lab. We'll have the results for Jane Doherty in less than one hour. I assume you want this run STAT. Janet Craig is running lab services today. She owes me one."

"Ha! Owes you one?" Cuddy repeated smugly. "As if anyone 'owes you one.' If anything…." She couldn't finish the thought, when, in fact, she, herself, owed him. For today. For indulging her fears without mocking her; without so much as teasing her. He was all business. Full-on doctor mode. Sometimes she forgot just how good he was at this. When he wanted to.

He was back within five minutes. And then they waited as the telephone's silence, and their own, filled House's office.


	14. Chapter 14

Sons and Lovers

Chapter 14

A/N—This is it, folks. The end of my summer Housefic project, only slightly interrupted by the Cuddy Fest and real life. Because I always feel the need to put my characters back from where I took them, I always try to return to canon by the end of a long fic like this one. This will, therefore, not be a completely happy ending (forewarned is forearmed as the say). Thanks for reading and especially all who have been so generous with their kind words.

I will resume my House episode reviews the day after the season premiere. My reviews and most of my Housefic can be found on my LJ at community. (pardon the shameless self promotion!) Read on.

"You know, I really don't need a team, Cuddy. I'd be fine on my own…"

"What? They haven't even started, and already they quit?" They were wasting time; filling the minutes until the email came through with the serum HCG results. "You need a team. Aren't they supposed to start next week?" Of course she knew they were but she wouldn't put it past House to retract their offers. He talked a good game about change and being all for it, but Cuddy knew that change was harder for House than it was for most.

House had grown up all over the planet. A life that anyone might seem to envy from the outside: exotic places like Egypt, Japan, Hawaii, London. House's facility with languages and the universal language of music helped him acclimate to the different cultures, but he'd never fit in among the American military kids that attended his schools. House had told Cuddy endless tales, back in the day, of sphinxes and volcanoes and mummies; castles and sooks. She'd only half-believed him as listened, mesmerized, to his low and seductive voice entice and seduce. But endless change can do its damage as well, and House paid for the constant upheaval and uncertainty.

A lifetime of uncertainty, of betrayals, of never feeling secure, had made it difficult for him to let go when he did, on occasion, find something to hold onto. Stacy, even after her betrayal; Wilson, herself. Even, although House would never admit it, his team, now broken and scattered in the dust of House's false-noted "good riddance." No she wouldn't put it past him, at all, to refuse to replace them, expecting , even hoping in some weird, warped way, that they would somehow find their way back into his service.

Cuddy regarded him through slit eyes as she dozed on the Eames chair. He was sitting tensed at his desk, forehead propped by his thumbs, seemingly engrossed in a journal article. She knew he wasn't reading, as he kept one eye on his computer display, waiting. As she was.

House was startled by the phone ringing so close to his ear.

"House." He glanced at the Caller ID display. It was the lab. He nodded and jotted down some figures on a legal pad. "Thanks. You'll email me a copy?"

Cuddy had walked quietly to his desk when the phone rang, and now held her breath as she peered down at the most important number: 72,776 mlU/ml. House looked up towards her, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "It's too big a decline even for 12 weeks, House."

She had anticipated his brushing off the serum HCG decline as normal second trimester drop-off. He didn't argue, unable to come up with a suitable response to the inevitable. He simply nodded slightly, in tacit agreement. There was nothing he could do or say to change it, or make it better, or soft-pedal it. She knew, as much as he did, if not more, exactly what a dramatic drop in serum HCG levels meant. Even at this point in a pregnancy. It was too much. Way too much.

"You need to call Dr…" House's voice was hoarse: wisps of scattered gravel, dry as dust. Cuddy unclipped her cell phone wordlessly; her hands were shaking, at odds with her calm demeanor. Suddenly, the phone fell, bouncing off the carpet, as she crumpled back into the Eames chair.

"I want to go home. I can call Morgan tomorrow. There's nothing…there's…" Cuddy looked away from House's gaze, no longer able to bear his silent watchfulness.

"Do you have any other symptoms?" It was a simple question. If the answer was "no," maybe the test was wrong; or it was anomalous result. Or something. "Bleeding, back pain, pain in…"

"I know the symptoms of miscarriage, and no," she replied shakily, "I don't think I have any of them. Other than the obvious. Nothing else would explain the serum HCG drop."

"Maybe your last test was wrong. Or there was a typo in her lab's report. Your numbers are still in range for a normal, end of first trimester pregnancy. The fact that you don't have any other symptoms…" He shook off the feeling that he was acting more like a family member than a rationally objective physician. Was he grasping at straws here? Hoping, if not for his sake, then for Cuddy's? "…All I'm saying is that we shouldn't jump to a conclusion based on one test, with no other basis; no other evidence."

"My breasts…."

"…are approaching the size of watermelons. And they're mine. I mean at least for the next six months. And even then, I'll only share unwillingly. I was never good at…" She knew what he was trying to do, and he had succeeded in, at least, making her smile. "You can call what's-her-name tomorrow and see if she can see you first thing. If it's going to happen…" He couldn't quite form the words to say it.

House was grateful that Cuddy hadn't insisted on doing an ultrasound before they left the hospital. She wouldn't have anyway: too much attention. Too many questions about why the dean of medicine needed the sonography equipment. And why House was with her doing it.

"Pancakes!"

"What?" The loudly proclaimed non-sequitor jarred Cuddy from her seat.

"Pancakes. You said you wanted them…"

"No." House scowled at her.

"You can't_not_ eat. Little parasite has to get its nutrition somehow. Never known you to…"

"I'm having a miscarriage, House…"

"You don't know that." Exasperated, House washed his hand over his face. "Not for sure. If we look at this objectively…"

"I am. You're not. I would've bet that it would have been the other way around."

"I was wrong. Call her. Now. Your OB."

"It's Sunday."

"Oh, it's Sunday. OB's have a special deal with the AMA? Sundays off? Maybe I should change specialties!" House pulled out his cell phone, while Cuddy observed.

"You don't even have her number. You wouldn't call her." She rose from the chair, sure that he was bluffing.

"Speed dial #9." She reached him just as he was hitting "send." Cuddy glared at him as he handed her the phone, half amazed that he'd thought to put her doctor's phone number in his speed-dial directory.

"This is Lisa Cuddy. I'm a patient of Dr. Frawley's….No, it's not an emergency…If you could have her call me….DOCTOR Lisa Cuddy. My number is…no the caller ID number isn't my phone…" Cuddy gave her own cell number and hung up. She had continued to glare at House throughout the conversation, her anger rising in time to her increasing embarrassment as she spoke to Morgan Frawley's answering service.

"Now. Let's go get something to eat," House suggested as he retrieved his phone.

"I'm still not hungry." Cuddy was calmer.

"We can't just sit around all day and wait for her to call back. You told the service it wasn't an emergency. She won't call for hours. And we have to eat."

"Fine. You eat. I'm not hungry."

"That's not what I…"

"Look, I need some time alone, anyway. It's fine. I'll drop you off at your apartment and call you later, I talk to Morgan." House rose from his desk, trying with only limited success to control his rising frustration. He shook his head, willing himself calm.

"I'm not leaving you alone. That's ridiculous. What if…?"

"What? I start bleeding, get cramping? The inevitable outcome of this? I can handle it myself. I'm a…"

"Don't you fucking dare say it…" He felt they were about to circle back to the beginning again and he was about to lose all sense of control, if he ever had it to begin with. He willed his voice calm, taking a deep breath; closing his eyes before continuing. "Let's go back to your house. We'll wait. She'll call." Clipped thoughts were all he could handle at the moment. Cuddy nodded curtly.

They drove back to Cuddy's in silence; he could feel the familiar and uneasy tension as she erected trenches around her emotions, preparing for the worst. She looked straight ahead as he drove her Lexus, her face a grim profile in pink alabaster. He knew this game; Hell, he lived this game, and had done so most of his life. She was shutting him out.

The sound of Cuddy's phone shattered the silence, startling them both, further eroding their already-frayed nerves. "This is Dr. Cuddy." Her voice was too calm. Controlled and quiet as she described her symptoms and the results of the HCG test they had done. House saw her nod into the phone.

They pulled into Cuddy's driveway as the phone conversation ended. "House, there's really nothing you can do right now. Morgan wants to see me tomorrow morning in her office. She wants to do an ultrasound. No surprise there, I suppose. Another blood test to…"

"…To see if the serum HCG has dropped or is maintaining. She wants you on bed rest. Left side."

"How did…?"

"Google is a wonderful thing, Cuddy." House emerged from the driver's side, his gait visibly painful.

"House, I told you I can…"

"Don't."

"There's no reason for you… You're not getting any, so you might as well go home…" House smiled at the thought.

"Believe me, I'm not after your body."

"Screw you."

"Any time, although I don't think that right now…" He had followed her in, closing the door behind himself and settled himself on Cuddy's couch. He patted the sofa cushion next to him, inviting her. "Or would you rather lie down in bed."

"I'm not tired, House."

"Left side. Lie down."

"It's bullshit. It's not going to make a difference. If my HCG is dropping, nothing will. I'm not having cramping. Or bleeding, so…"

"I thought that was a good thing. The not cramping or bleeding. I could be wrong, though. I'm not really an OB, but I did hear a rumor that your OB strongly suggested…"

"Fine. But I'll lie down in bed. Alone. Stay or go. It's up to you." Cuddy watched, waiting for House to get up and leave. When he didn't, she made her way into the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

House listened to Cuddy's walls creak and sigh in the silence. He hadn't wanted this; was sure he wasn't up to the task. Wasn't sure he'd manage to suppress the demons and ghosts of his own past to go through with it. But this…

He hadn't wanted to feel; hadn't wanted to form another attachment, especially not to some "it" that was more an idea than a person. Hell, he hadn't even wanted to fall in love…again. Hated himself for having done it; remembered the sharp knife of betrayal and the ice-cold glare of apathy that went hand-in-hand with it. He shivered at the memory of her leaving; of her ambivalence after he had managed to win her again. Cuddy's face replaced Stacy's in a surreal-pathetic vision of Days of Future Past. Love was for suckers; for fools. And it was always conditional. You could never know the conditions, but you sure could anticipate them. Better that than…

House shook off the darkness that threatened to swallow him. He considered his own parents, his assumptions, and what he now knew; what his mind had only begun to process. His father's love for him wasn't conditional. It was non-existent; a sort of tolerance that hinged on a conformity that was beyond House's capability…or even his desire.

To Wilson, he was a project; the object of Wilson's neediness. And, House supposed, he did need someone to give a fuck about him. Symbiosis is a beautiful thing, he mused. Had Stacy ever loved him? Her love was certainly conditional, if at all. Conditional on an overt returning of affection and caring. Which was fine while he was whole, but not so much after she had destroyed the essence of who he was and would never again be. He had loved Stacy unconditionally; still loved her. Too bad for her that she couldn't see beyond what he had become; what she had made him into. Wouldn't stay and revel in the icicle glares that had replaced the warmth in his eyes. Wouldn't remain to feel the coldness of his shoulder as he refused her touch.

And then there was Cuddy. He was pretty sure that she loved him, maybe even unconditionally. She had stuck with him, rescued him—even as she had her own hand in destroying him all those years ago. Guilt…or unconditional love…or some perverse combination thereof? He loved her. He was pretty sure of that too. Despite Herculean efforts to the contrary; protestations and declarations too loudly proclaimed, to a point where he, himself, no longer believed them.

House rose from the sofa, looking at his watch. An hour had passed since Cuddy had gone into the bedroom. She would have expected him to follow; and been disappointed in him when he had not. Stand in line, Cuddy. Plenty of disappointment in Dr. Gregory House to fill Princeton Stadium, he mused darkly.

He opened the door to her room, expecting her to have fallen asleep long ago. Her wide-open eyes followed him warily, coolly, as he approached the bed. "I thought you had gone." Her voice was rough, subdued and drowned in tears.

House didn't answer, and instead got into the bed behind her as she lay dutifully on her left side. House gathered her against his chest from behind, simply being; holding onto her, his arms encircling, enfolding.

"They started about 10 minutes ago." She felt House cock his head, confused momentarily. But then he understood. He held onto her ever tighter, knowing that this was only the beginning of the end. House kissed the top of Cuddy's head as he stroked her abdomen, doing his best to ease the tightness and cramping that was now but gentle foreboding of the storm to come. The gesture, simple, expected, even, broke the dam to her emotions as Cuddy's body shook, wracked by sobbing; by loss and grief.

House gave her space, resisting the urge to damn the doctor's orders and turn her onto her right side, to face him, to have her tears fall on his chest and not on the pillow. There was nothing to say. There was only waiting: a death watch; a vigil for an unborn fetus—an "it." There was nothing to be done. Only to be. Only to hold on. Only to wait.

House's instincts had told him, months before, to run away: from her. And weeks before: from this. She had held him in her arms that terrible night so long ago: no conditions, no expectations. She had rescued him from the depths; from dying; from despair. Allowed him his space, as he had wept in her embrace.

Time marched on in silent vigil as he held her silently; her sobs long since ended. It could have been 20 minutes or 10 hours—he was no longer sure of anything but the presence of Cuddy 's back tucked against his body, and the growing pain in his right leg. Cuddy's body was still except for the inevitable spasms that came more frequently and with greater regularity. She moved suddenly, leaping from the bed, disturbing the warm sadness that had enveloped them both. House watched as she ran into the bathroom, sitting up as he rubbed ruthlessly at the agony in his right leg, waiting, knowing.

She had been prepared; they both had been, as much as you can be, and better than most: sometimes too much information wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The bathroom door opened slowly and Cuddy stood in the frame, a silhouette. "I need a plastic container and a ladle." Her voice was controlled and measured: a doctor giving an order. House looked around for his cane; he knew that walking without it would be more than a problem, especially since he was long overdue for his meds. He nodded, sucking in a breath, determined to do this with a minimum of fuss—or attention on himself. He slowly rose from the bed, holding onto the post, and then the armoire and walls as he maneuvered his way from the room silently. He saw his pill bottle and cane near the sofa, grabbing both as he crossed to the kitchen to look for the needed implements.

And what would he say to her when he got back to the bedroom? And the next day? And a month from now? He hated platitudes because they meant nothing and required no effort, no thought, to say. "Oh well, too bad Cuddy, we'll try again?" Not likely. This wasn't something they'd planned in the first place. And while it had grown on him, at least to the point of acceptance, parenthood was not something House actively sought, or even desired. He wasn't quite sure what Cuddy wanted, but after two miscarriages… But that was a conversation for another day.

House found Cuddy standing in the bathroom, blood everywhere, staring into the bowl. He was feeling physically more steady as the Vicodin began to slowly kick in and his muscles unstiffened. He touched her back lightly. "Go lie down. You shouldn't be on your feet. I'll…" he gestured toward the toilet and then the room itself. "Go." An order gently conveyed as House gazed into Cuddy's red, wet eyes.

Cuddy nodded slightly, turning back into the bedroom. House closed the door behind her, washing his hands over his eyes as he turned to the grim task at hand.


End file.
